


Serpentine

by susabei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Amnesia, Child Tom Riddle, Children not identifying feelings properly, Eventual Romance, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Female Characters of Color, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JK Rowling can @ me, Jealousy, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Other, POV Tom Riddle, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Realistic, Slow Burn, Unrecipocated Feelings, Unreliable Narrator, Will They or Won't They?, Witches of Color, Wizards are racist, Wizards are sexist, Young Tom Riddle, long fic, what is this feeling?, yt people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-07-25 09:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 94,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susabei/pseuds/susabei
Summary: The year is 2018. I'm on Quotev absentmindedly browsing through stories when I find it: a romantic fanfic involving young Voldemort. "What the feck?" I ask myself, as I click it out of morbid curiosity, unknowingly discovering the part of the internet that romanticizes a murderer because the actor who played teenage him was conventionally attractive. "This is pretty bad." I say to myself offhandedly, "I could do better." Those were, of course, my famous last words.Or,Tom has a crush on a girl and doesn't know how to deal with it.Or,An attempt at a realistic, critical view of both the Harry Potter world, and Tom Riddle having a plausible love interest. Updates every 2-4 weeks.





	1. Her Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom doesn't know how to make friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative Clickbait Title: 𝕾𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖊 || ♥𝕋𝕠𝕞 ℝ𝕚𝕕𝕕𝕝𝕖♥ **IN THE WORKS**

In the months leading up to his first day, he had been carefully observing other wizards: their mannerisms, customs, sayings, and the like. He wants to be absolutely sure that he does not fit _out_ like he does back at the orphanage. He wants to make a name for himself _his way._ To be recognized for the best reasons. And so, Tom parrots them: their gaits and gazes and speech and stance, and so far his chameleon ability has worked like a _charm._ He is getting along finely with others for perhaps the first time in his life, and he has even started perfecting his smile to look...well, less like a grimace. Tom continues to make _allies_ everywhere he steps in this fascinating and great new world.

Except…

His last name. Wizards, he has found, seem to have some top secret list kept in each of their houses that contain all the family names of all the witches and wizards that have ever been. _Riddle_ , of course, is not one of them. Some on his journey have so far overlooked this, but others have straight up _immediately_ stopped talking to him mid conversation and walked off. They have no time for him, _for weakness._ He understands. He hates it, but he understands.

Tom grips the edge of the table as another uproarious cheer is heard from the students at the sound of another first year being sorted. He’ll show them. _He’ll prove himself to all of them--_

The girl previously sitting to his left scoots upwards to make room for an older boy, perhaps about 14; he introduces himself with his name and a handshake. Tom does his best to shake firmly.

“Riddle, right?” The boy has a brilliant smile that reminds him of a politician, “Professor Dumbledore told me about you, asked if I could help show you around.”

Tom tilts his chin upwards in soft bemusement.

“It’s part of a program he wants to start: introducing muggleborns to Hogwarts safely and all that--”

He stiffens at the word, but the older boy does not seem to notice.

“Of course, no offense intended, I know you’re not one of _those,_ ” He nods his head over to the newly sorted Hufflepuff student sitting proudly among his housemates, “--Just being in Slytherin proves it.” A comforting hand is rested on Tom’s shoulder, “I’m here for any questions you might have.” A wink and smile.

Interesting.

“What makes you think I’m not muggleborn?” Tom makes sure to use the same word as his new _mentor_ did.

A chuckle, “Ah, Dumbledore didn’t tell you?” The boy rests his arms on the table before them, lowering himself down as if their conversation were now secret, “Well, to put it bluntly, Salazar Slytherin would never allow a muggleborn into his house--Take comfort in that.”

Tom does.

“But don’t feel alone in your not knowing, there’s another one like you,” He turns and points across the table a few seats away to a young girl reading though a tome, “--She’s also an orphan: doesn’t know anything about her bloodline. A year ahead of you, I believe, but you should talk to her.”

An interest is formed almost immediately: attention piqued and curiosity sharpened, the young boy drinks in the stranger down the table, whose self-possessiveness could be felt from even his seat. What was her orphanage like? Was she an outsider as well? Was her magic as powerful as his? Did she also know that she was destined for greater things beyond the walls of her prison? Tom sees the disconnect his fellow Slytherin has with the people around her (even if it wasn’t already obvious by her own hand-me-down robes and appearance), and he knows that he has found kin within his house.

He resolves to talk to her at once.

\---

He gets his chance a week later, in the library.

Ink and quills are a bother (he wishes he had brought the nice fountain pen he took from the desk of the matron of Wool’s), but he’s so enraptured in the subject of his papers, that having homework during the first week at school does not bother him in the slightest. For an hour he stays like this: writing constantly and furiously for an essay that half the children in his History of Magic class haven’t even _thought_ about yet.

Out of the corner of his eye: movement.

Tom almost spares no glances to the identity of the student now joining him at his table, until he adjusts the brim of his hat (what kind of school uniform assigns hats for _day wear_ [1] _)_ and sees a flash of dark skin to his left. The recognition is immediate.

Subtly, though not subtle at all, his eyes look over her reading material: a thick and aged book appearing to be entirely written in pictographs of a language and style unknown to him. As he tries to peer closer, he makes out what appears to be a rather bloody scene within the book. A ritual explanation? _Instructions?_

The last thing he sees is the threaded bracelet on her wrist before he glances upward and is met with sharp darkness.

“What are you reading?” Tom is nothing if not quick on his feet, though he does perhaps need more practice on the innocent act.

Distrust is evident in her eyes (it’s a look Tom knows all too well,) and his housemate takes a moment to size him up before answering in a voice softer (and harder) than expected, “Poems.”

Tom wonders if she’s serious or if he takes him for an idiot. But he’ll save _that_ for a later conversation.

Remembering his manners, Tom extends his hand outward to her, “Tom Riddle.” He tries not to look _too_ unnerving, as he remembers how much his stare would creep out the caretakers back at the orphanage. He even tries for a kind smile.

The distrust is still there, but now it is mixed with _something else._ Progress, Tom thinks, though he does not know what exactly the other thing is, it makes him feel better than the thing that bleeds into people’s gaze when he tells them his last name.

Sure enough, she takes her eyes off of his hand like it’s carrying a hex and extends her own hand for him to shake, “Ximena.”

“ _He-men-ah?_ ” He repeats, not out of courtesy, but because she had clearly not given him a last name.

But all she gives is a nod before returning to her reading. Though it’s clear to him that she’s vaguely annoyed by his...existence, she appears to also tolerate it, as she does not move from her spot at his table.

Tom resolves to investigate further.

But first: his essay.

\---

Barely two weeks into his time at Hogwarts, and Tom feels that he has eaten more than he ever has in his life. Every meal is wonderful and there is nobody there to tell him _no_ , that he cannot have anymore or that he has eaten too much or that he may not have sweets.

He tries not to think about when he has to go back to Wool’s at the end of the year.

Instead he focuses on where he is going to sit for today’s lunch: near his half-annoying assigned guide or by some new chatting classmates? Eye contact and pleasant greetings are made to both options, but Tom soon makes a beeline towards a different table.

There’s a regal air surrounding Ximena to the point that it feels as if she were a teacher sitting down during her lunch--In fact, Tom actually finds himself genuinely asking permission to sit at her table. He is pleased when she responds with acknowledgement of his presence and a nod.

The seat taken is strategic. That is to say, Tom takes a seat directly across from her to try and inspire conversation. To build a friendly atmosphere. Of course, this would work with any normal person. Or any person with manners. His fellow Slytherin, of course, ignores him in favor of her drink. Tom spares it a glance:

A tall glass of something red and dark. Rosy red. Like wine or petals. When she drinks from it, the liquid leaves a pink stain over her upper lip that reminds Tom of blush. Her fingers trail tracks on the condensation of the glass, and it almost makes him shiver to think just how cold it has to be. The food is equally intriguing: simple rice mixed in with small chunks of a green slimy type of...plant? Vegetable? Alongside it is a mound of unidentifiable meat covered in a thick brown sauce topped with some sort of seed. Despite the unusual choices, his mouth begins to salivate at the heavenly foreign smell wafting from her plate. There was something special about this meal. Something sacred.

He clears his throat, “What are you reading today?”

Ximena’s leatherbound book (sat next to her black hat) reads “RAMOS” on the cover in a golden script, and is about two and a half inches thick. The pages are browned from the sun and various sections have the corners folded down,

“Something light.” Her knife cuts through the meat on her plate as Tom begins work on his own meal (corned beef and a side of bread pudding).

“Did you get that book from the library?”

The girl shakes her head, and Tom knows she is done speaking.

For the next few weeks, he would follow her around like a puppy dog--Though not out of loyalty, but more out of curiosity. To her credit, or perhaps discredit, she does not seem to mind or even take notice. Across plazas and library spaces and the Great Hall, Tom can be seen walking along behind her, keeping up rather well with her brisk pace all while the rest of Slytherin house watches with mixed tones of amusement and confusion. A part of him is annoyed at the silly rumors flying around about his “crush” (an absurd notion), but another part is half thankful for the opportunity to talk to the people who think they’re knowledgeable enough in _women_ to give him advice: Tom is savvy enough to talk them into sharing their knowledge on magic.

He sits next to her during lunch, occasionally dinner, and eats quietly while she thumbs through whatever book she happens to be carrying that day. Every once in a while, during the times he is not eyeing her strange meals, he’ll ask a question on what she’s reading or request advice on his studies, and to his surprise (and delight), she always has an answer for him, though it is rarely an answer that is actually useful to him in the moment. Tom finds that she dislikes giving others a straight answer when the person can find it for themselves, or so he deducts when a Ravenclaw sits across from her during one lunch and asks about some sort of potions review. That’s respectable, he concludes, and not to mention useful. Can’t be giving away _all_ your secrets. Can’t be looking arrogant and too involved in yourself.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want special treatment.

One thing he can assure everyone of is that he is _not_ an idiot: He might not be able to understand or decipher the readings of the girl, but he damn well knows it’s leagues different than whatever she should be learning. They don’t teach what she reads at Hogwarts, but maybe she can teach it to him. Only to him. Exclusively.

“ _Ximena,_ ” he prompts in his best meek voice, “it says in my potions book that I need nigella seeds, but I can’t find anything useful on them anywhere.”

She looks up from her page, marked with a grand and proud tree, “Your kind of witches and wizards call them blessing seeds.” Her hand slides over the surface of Tom’s book to point at the picture of a black mound of said seeds, Tom stares at her red bracelet, “You won’t find anything useful about them in any English book.” His eyes glance upward, but her hand and attention return to her own literature before eye contact could be made. “--Try Punjabi.”

Progress.

\---

Euphoria is not an emotion Tom is used to. Fear, yes. Sadness, yes. _Anger_ , oh God yes. But happiness?

When Dumbledore arrived at Wool’s and told him that he was different, that was triumph. Satisfaction. He had always known that he was better than the others, that he was special. That day at the beach? When the serenity of the sea met with the delightful vengeance on those two children? Close. Very close. Maybe when he was first sorted, perhaps? His heart did a strange sort of _jump_ up against his ribcage and his feet felt lighter than air...Yes, maybe that was happiness.

But first, let us compile what Tom has learnt after his first month of observing:

One: she is indeed a year ahead of him. A minor setback, but an even greater advancement. There are many places that a first year cannot reach or pass into, so much that even having a year added to one’s age is a huge advantage. Already, he has managed to accompany (sneak in with) her into various fascinating sections of the library and common room and learned a good handful of spells infinitely more useful than the rubbish they were teaching him and the other first years. Though not being the rule-breaking type, Ximena does not say anything about this to the teachers. Possibly because she simply does not care. Possibly because she has not noticed him. The thought of the later, irks him, but there is some good in going unnoticed.

Two: his so-called mentor was wrong: she is not an orphan, she is a _foundling._ Found with no memories or evidence of a life before her arrival at her given orphanage. This, he learns from Dumbledore, who has taken to having tea with him every week to check up on him. He takes Tom’s curiosity as a good sign, and encourages him to make friends with her. The fool, he’s way ahead of him. Of course, he knows better than to try to bring her past up with her before properly constructing a perfect empathetic story to go along with it, but a part of him doubts that that would even work: the girl is _viciously_ private and guards herself better than the dementors do Azkaban. It only makes him want to pry her secrets from her grasp even more. Secrets that perhaps not even she knows. Secrets that, in their own way, could help him heal and discover about his own past. A longshot, he knows, but if he lives in a world where magic is real, he’s willing to calculate the risk to find out.  

Three: she has no friends to speak of, unless they are outside of the school or within classes only. Every lunch and dinner he has with her holds few similarities: her spot, her demeanor, and his questions. Few enough students speak to her, and even fewer do it with any shred of respect. Tom concludes that wizards aren’t as progressive as they’d like to make themselves out to be. A part of him wonders just how different it would be had the girl been born pale and as English as imperialism[2]. Certainly more popular, he’s sure. What idiots. Their loss, he supposes, and definitely his gain: if he could only wiggle his way into her small and restricted circle of _friendship,_ he is sure that he stands much to win. Luckily, despite dividing his time between classes, studies, and conquering the hearts and minds of his fellow first years, he has not been stagnant on this quest. Ximena, while cold to everyone, has dropped enough added extras into their conversations (if one could call them that) for Tom to know that he is _preferred_ over others at their school. While one person might get an “Good afternoon”, he receives a “Good afternoon” and eye contact. That’s just fine, it only makes sense for two superiors to differentiate themselves among a pack of sheep. _As long as he was different._

As for the sheep, well, that was coming along as well as it could. Unfortunately, stupidity was found everywhere, and not just the muggle world. Tom weeds through mediocrity and weakness at such a speed that if he were physically doing it, it would cramp his hands within seconds. Already, he has a fine reputation with his classmates on being the best student to partner up with, and that has helped in his journey to climb to the top. Sadly, even the brightest students among him are only concerned with frivolities: gossip, broomsticks, and Quidditch. No matter, they are still merely children, there is time. At least, and he comforts himself with this thought, he has support. A network. A web. He is no longer alone. _We Slytherins are brothers. We Slytherins welcome our own._ [3]

What exactly “our own” was, is still up for debate. Many in his house have shown themselves to be of the opinion that even reactionary half-blood wizards have no place in Slytherin, and a small (but loud) fraction of those are particularly bitter at the inclusion of wizards whose parentage hails from less _savoury_ countries. What muck.

This, of course, brings us back to Ximena:

They ask him questions, other students. Questions about her and her strange demeanor. Associating himself with the right people is starting to pay off: his schoolmates see him as something other than another blotch in the painting. _Not just another ‘Tom’._ As distasteful as it is to leech from the infamy of another, it serves as a nice boost for the people who have not yet witnessed his skill and talent within the classroom. Granted, the questions asked are abhorrently stupid, but they serve more than they slack. “Has she cursed you yet?” “So she can actually talk?” “Got a case of jungle fever, have you?” “She’s so arrogant, how can you stand to be around her?”

His answers take a page from the book of Ximena: mainly, that he gives a straight answer without really telling the person what they want to know. He plays the other students like instruments and gains more and more admirers for his _bravery_ in speaking with a girl with such a savage background. _How noble of him._ They believe he can civilize her for the betterment of Slytherin house.

Disgusting.

As if he had any obligation or time to build another up like that. He looks out for himself, and that’s that. If any of these fools were truly worth their salt, they would have already seen her potential, which begs the question: can they see his potential? His already natural talent and raw skill? Or do they see a sad orphan with no past and no future?

So returning to euphoria (finally): It is ridiculous, he knows, but he cannot help but see parts of himself in her. No, he is not _drawn_ to her, that’s ridiculous. He has chosen for himself to feel attached to this stranger with whom he shares so much with. The more he sees, the more he is convinced of it: they should join forces. Nevermind that his moments with her are quite nice, that is only because she does not spout buffoonery at all hours of the day and provides him with adequate help and knowledge on his studies.

It is not because it fills him with peace. Or contentedness. Or satisfaction. Or because he likes looking at her. Tom truly has no sense (or tastes, for that matter) regarding beauty, but there is something particularly exciting in the confidence and air she gives.

Alright, so fair to say that he is drawn to power, though in all his watchings and followings, he has yet to catch her uttering a single spell. One afternoon, he had passed by her in the common room and observed that the spoon in her hot drink was moving by itself, but that was nothing. He had done that and more in his time before he knew about his being a wizard, and though others in his year are clumsy oafs who couldn’t bend a spoon if they tried, such magic is _simple._ No, Tom wanted to see exactly what she could do. Not just what she knows or just what she studies, but also what she is capable of. Rumors heard and digested from other Slytherins do little to satiate his curiosity (and expectations), and really, they only fan the flames of an already minute obsession (the obsession to have the upperhand, of course. Not at all an obsession with her.) While most of the rumors are in fact vulgar slander, a small pocketful are curious notes of interest for Tom, such as the subject of Ximena’s wand. As a matter of fact, Tom hasn’t ever seen her wand. He’d like to inspect it, if he could, and maybe take it for an evening...Without her knowing, of course.

Erstwhile, his mentor, while well meaning, has been of little use thus far: he is busy with _Quidditch_ and chasing girls, of all things. Tom has only had time to speak with him in the darker hours of the Slytherin common room, and even then, he says nothing of value. Oh sure, now he knows about the house elves behind the painting, and what staff to watch out for, and what the best thing to order at Honeyduke’s is, but Tom’s idea of good information involves which students in his year have _connections._ Which students are particularly gifted and easy to manipulate? Are wizards particularly fond of yearbooks or family documentation?

“I’ve noticed you’ve been talking to Lane.” The older boy prompts, dressed for bed and lounging across a chair as if it were his personal throne, “Getting along good?”

“Swimmingly,” Tom says, back straight, sitting pretty with a book on his lap, “Bit of a strange surname for her, isn’t it? Lane?”

He bites into an apple, snorting, “Aye, you caught that, didn’t ya?” _Of course_ he did. Buffoon. “Muggles give strange names to foundlings.” Agreed, but that’s not what Tom wants to know.

“Where do you think they got Ximena from?” Casual and innocent.

“Mmm,” He chews and swallows thoughtfully, “from what she told me, it was all she could remember about her.” A shrug, “Could you imagine? Having only your name in your possession?”

Tom makes a noise of acknowledgement, but stays still, “You talk with her often?”

A smile. Or a snerk, “Oh worry not Tom, I won’t steal your love away.” Another bite as Tom suppresses a look of contempt, “We’re in dueling club together, though her interest is more method than action.” He shrugs, “She might seem a bit away with the mixer, but she definitely has knickers, if you know what I mean.” [4]

He does. More or less. “Method?” Perhaps he is getting somewhere.

“She’s a bit obsessed with methods, yes. Sometimes I think she’d be better off as a teacher assigning meters of parchment.” A pause, “Lane doesn’t just want to know spells, she wants to know _how_ they work. Why they work. Bit of a waste of time if you ask me, most everyone who pays enough attention to know about her train of thought thinks she’s loony.” He leans in towards Tom again just as he did at their first meeting, another secret: “It’s such a muggle way of thinking, isn’t it? Finding out why things work instead of just using the thing and being done with it.” He shakes his head, “Never satisfied.”

Tom can relate.

Alright, so maybe he _wasn’t_ as special as he thought he was. A minor setback. The way he sees it, it was only a matter of time: his mentor had over a year on him and had known her for longer. It’s not as if he was particularly talented and _better_ than he was. More knowledgeable, perhaps, in the affairs of wizards and in the names of spells and such. But there was no way she respected him as an equal.

Right?

He is not jealous.

He is a perfectly fine and reasonable boy of 11, he is absolutely positively not at all jealous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The uniform in the books is described as “plain black work robes” and “One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear.”
> 
> [2] J.K. Rowling can talk all she wants about how “wizards aren’t racist”, my brown ass is not buying a damn cent of it.
> 
> [3] Excerpts from the Slytherin House welcome page in Pottermore
> 
> [4] “All furcoat and no knickers” is a British saying meaning “all appearances and no substance” or “pretty but shallow”. “Away with the mixer” is another way of saying “loony” or “away with the fairies”.
> 
> You can also find this story on Quotev.
> 
> I wanted to see if I could write a decent and in-character ficlet involving Tom Riddle and a plausible romantic love interest. Of course, I decided to use the platform to world build on my own, as usual /shrugemoji
> 
> Thanks to Lion, Diana, and Leigh for reading it over and giving feedback.


	2. His Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom learns so much from so little.

The Dueling Club quarters is a long hall near the dungeons that Tom slips into after his satisfactory lunch (A plowman’s lunch and pumpkin juice). It blends in with the surroundings well enough at first glance, but upon stepping in, he is greeted with warmth and earth tones--in the exposed wooden beams and golden sunlight streaming in through the one tall window in the room. Grand banners and tapestries hang from the vaulted ceiling depicting dangerous matches and triumphant wins, it makes Tom think of a proper den for older men to chat and smoke cigars in. Or a cathedral. A few students lounge up in the trusses with their owls and brooms, and some others sit chatting on a harvest table set aside near a quiet fireplace. Relaxed. Not at all what was expected.

His arrival is early and met with friendly faces and friendly conversations. Pretending not to see Ximena reading in the shadow of an obnoxious statue to his right, Tom speaks casually with his schoolmates, and is even introduced to a few new faces outside his usual circle. His smile works wonders on them, and he is even given the title of “ _adorable_ ” by a few six year girls.

“Mister Riddle, is it?” The professor’s voice comes from behind him, and he turns to a tall, sparrow like woman with a sharp face, “Professor Slughorn told me all about you; here to observe our little show?”

“I hope they were all good things, Professor Willow.” A humble laugh, “I’ve wanted to visit and see for a long time, but unfortunately never had the opportunity due to schoolwork.”

“Yes, I hear you are a diligent student.” A radiant smile stands out brightly on her near black skin, “I can only hope what you see here interests you enough to enroll in my class your second year.”

Already he was being coveted by teachers who haven’t even _seen_ his worth. Tom glows with humble pride as the professor makes her announcements to the students, some of which were barely flickering in with only seconds to spare. People clear the center of the hall, and Tom makes his way to the other side of the forming oblong space to claim his spot alongside Ximena. Her reading material is closed and set on her lap, and when he greets her politely, she blinks at him and replies “Good afternoon.” with a nod. To her other side, he hadn’t noticed, is his half-useful mentor.

“Riddle! Glad to see you here.” A wink is thrown at Tom’s direction as he gestures to the girl beside him with his head. Tom tries not to cringe. “Even came early! Making good impressions everywhere.” His feet come upward to sit cross-legged on the bench, “Willow always starts right on time. Must have been a bloody clock in another life, eh Lane?” His elbow grazes her side as she makes a small noise of acknowledgment.

“What happens if you’re late?” Tom peeps, sitting down with his hands in his lap.

“You have to go first.” His laugh is telling, and as if on cue, a poor Hufflepuff runs in, frazzled and out of breath, looking desperately for any sign of her timelyless.

“So nice of you to join us, Miss Kowalska!” Professor Willow’s tone is pleasing and warm, “And so good of you to volunteer for our first duel! Now, let us find out who will be your opponent,” she turns her attention to the archway where the echos of panicked footsteps could be heard.

“Kowalski[1]? This’ll be good.” Though annoying, his commentary might prove useful, “Who do you think it’ll be, Lane? Weasley? Peterson? Acarya?”

“Acarya is never late.” Ximena points out, appearing tired with the spectacle. Her disinterest is ignored in favor of speaking to Tom again.

“You up for a duel today, Riddle?” Another wink, as if he were trying to imply something, “Heard the commotion you made over there with those sixth year girls--Might impress them.”

What an idiot.

“Only here to observe.” Tom pretends to look shy, “I haven’t been given permission to join yet--I’m a first year, remember.”

“Shame, you’d be good.” A candy bar is picked out from a pocket sewn into his robes, “Heard a lot about you from my little sister--She’s in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Little snotface with lots of freckles? Glasses? Says you’re the favourite of the class already.”

Tom has no recollection of the girl in question, but she’s probably not important. Regardless, he nods along with what the older boy says as if he’s proud of his praise, “She exaggerates, but I thank her for her words.”

“No no,” he strongly taps the side of Ximena’s arm to focus her attention on the conversation, “don’t listen to him, Lane, he’s gonna be big.” Ximena appeared to not be listening at all, “We have to snatch up slots as his trusted friends and advisors before they’re all taken up. While he’s still a diamond in the rough.”

“Diamonds are exceedingly common, contrary to popular belief.” A command to shut up.

Tom almost winces. _There are a lot of Toms._ Words said only months ago

“--Mister Wood! My, you are the eager volunteer, eight times in a row!” The professor’s voice cuts through his train of thought like a knife through clotted cream.

“Augh, Wood, I should have known.” A slap on his mentor’s knee, another hum from Ximena.

Tom stays silent.

\---

During breakfast, Tom is bombarded by students. Sitting down at their insistence, there is excited chatter about the duels from yesterday and proper introductions that were not able to be done before.

“Bet you were hoping to sit next to Lane, huh?”

As a matter of fact he was, but he hasn’t been able to catch her at breakfast time.

But luck, though elusive, is still on his side:

“Actually, I was looking for you.”

The girl who is never late turns her attention from Zabini to Tom and feigns vague interest. Tom’s mentor, who had been the one speaking, looks on in curiosity.

“Yami Acarya, correct?” Tom does his best to look like he was holding down his excited nerves,

Her dark eyes pool deeper than Ximena’s, and it makes Tom feel a different kind of on-the-spot. There’s judgement instead of analysis. Confirmation instead of suspicion, “I saw you in Dueling Club yesterday--I I was wondering if you would, um, do me the honor of maybe teaching me some of those jinks?”

\---

The early afternoon sun bathes the library in a gentle orange glow, creating the perfect atmosphere for a nap. Tom walks in, eyes scanning for his new tutor, hands clutching his textbooks. He spots her among a small group of third and fourth year girls speaking quietly in a language he does not understand, and approaches curiously, hand grazing over the head of a grey tabby lounging on their table. One of them, perhaps the oldest, notices him first and breaks out of their conversation to address Yami,

“ਦੇਖੋ.” A head gesture to him, “Company.”

She looks surprised to see him there, “You showed up.”

“I would never miss a lesson, it’s bad manners.” The tabby purrs and rubs her face into his hand, “I really want to learn, really _really._ ”

A few of her companions giggle under their breath, and the oldest commands them to move and set aside, “Come on, come on, he’s small, but make room for him anyways.”

“Desire is the first step.” Yami starts, sitting back into her seat as Tom takes the chair perpendicular to her, while the other girls settle down, “Magic is not free from passion. Remember that.”

He will.

The rest of the hour runs by like a 101 class: All vocabulary, all theory, all warnings. And despite this, Tom does not find himself bored or frustrated with the information. There are no names or descriptions of spells like he had initially wanted, unfortunately, but there is wisdom. Controlling spells that are notorious for turning on the caster, concentration for spells that required eye-contact, and countercursing when you have no countercurses, to name a few. The whole group contributes their own experiences and advice with him, often giving paradoxical comments and erupting in silly debates: Two of the girls show him proper wrist movement on a hex, while the other two argue that it would be better if he learned how to do _without_ his wand.

_“No, that’s too advanced for him!”_

_“Any idiot can do it if they pay attention.”_

_“Who are you calling an idiot.”_

_“Well, not you, since you can’t do it.”_

Conclusion: magic is not a one size fits all.

Despite the bickering, he can feel the camaraderie in the air. Their bond. To be this near it, to be (dare he say) a part of it was...Nice.

But it ends. One by one, the group leaves for a class, or for a date or lunch, until he alone remains with Yami and the grey tabby, notebook filled up and hand cramping. The low murmur of students in the room gone and replaced with the turning of pages and occasional humming of the library aide.

“And--Can I ask you something?”

“It’s all you’ve done this whole hour.” What a charmer.

“Why do some of the students avoid wands?”

“It’s common in many places to not use wands.”

“ _But why?_ ” Tell him what he wants to know, Goddammit.

Yami pauses, just for a moment, “When you perform magic with your wand, do you feel a disconnect?”

Intrigue, “What do you mean?”

“Does it not feel like you’re...Breathing through a tube? Wearing gloves while putting on clothes?” She stumbles rather gracefully through words, searching for the right comparison, “Like hot tea through a strainer.”

Tom nods once.

“And when you do magic without a wand, does it feel the same?”

A breath of hesitation, “I can do little magic like that.”

“ _But you can, right?_ ” She sees through him, and Tom nods again. “No matter how small or weak...You feel that connection stronger, yes? _Not_ more amplified...But stronger.” Yami is careful to make this differentiation, “It’s difficult to bond enough with your wand to erase that feeling completely, but you can do it, in the end.”

“You teach like Ximena,” A casual comment, but he looks up at his tutor to see her reaction, “clear and confusing.”

Sepia lips pull back to a look of contempt, “Oh, her.”

“Do you know her?” Leaning forward, he makes sure to sound eager on purpose. Might as well use the ‘crush’ excuse to its full potential. ‘ _Tell me about her.’_ His posture says.

Yami sits straighter in her seat, head rising, dark hair falling over her shoulders to create a thin curtain between herself and Tom. Her eyes look ahead at nothing. “She is shrouded in a veil of hope.” Her gold earrings tremble, but her head holds still, “I’ve only seen such dire need of purification from maledicti.” A shake of her head, eyes shut, pushing the idea aside, “Come, it’s unsavory to gossip, your class starts soon.”

Tom wonders if it’s a common trait among foreigners to speak in riddles.

\---

What he learned in the library was worth more than he originally thought. Application to charms and transfiguration were the first to show results, and the last (and most surprising) was flying. Control of your broom and control of a hex dance in similar circles. He’s excited to share his progress and own findings to Ximena, and even more to ask about some things that Yami declined to explain.

Tonight’s dinner is meat stuffed into circular pockets made of something that reminds him of pasties composed with naan. She cuts into them with a knife and fork, and as steam escapes, she picks the halves up with her hands and bites in.

Tom’s plate holds blood pudding.

Exchanging pleasantries, he wastes no time, “Ximena?”

“Hm?” She wipes the corner of her lips with her thumb, mouth half full.

“What are maledicti?” The subtle halt in her eating is noted, and waiting on her answer while she finishes chewing and swallowing her bite is enough to make his fingers tap in antsy anticipation.

“Cursed women.” The food is set down on her plate and washed down with her milk-white iced drink, “You remember the witch from the dueling club meeting, Acarya? People like her, her family, they break these kinds of things. Or alter them.” Specks of something caramel colored swirl in the glass as she sets it down before her hat, “Here,” Her hand presses down on the book of the day (purple and only two centimeters thick) and slides it towards him, “If you’re curious.”

A tremor slithers through his heart and out his fingers as he grasps the edges of the book delicately, “Thank you.” Something like _elation_ or _thrill_ finds its way out of his mouth in the form of a laugh. It surprises him. He opens up the book immediately to drink in the contents, only _half_ aware of the _half_ amusement coming from his seatmate. The half amusement becomes clear when he reads a few sentences: it might as well be an academic paper translated from Ancient Runes, to Mandarin, to Finnish, back to Mandarin, and finally English. That is, it is difficult to decipher and frustrating to even try. Vocabulary and citations he knows nothing of mock him openly as he strains his tired eyes over Ximena’s handwritten notes in the margins, and almost huffs when he realizes it’s not in English.

“Simple translation spell.” As if she were reading his mind, “Few to choose from, but the notes aren’t important to your questions.” That makes the frustration worse. “Don’t worry about it.”

Skimming through a couple of more pages, Tom settles on a detailed illustration spread depicting symptoms of the Evil Eye and begins to read quietly for the rest of the hour.

\---

The first few duels of the next meeting are chaotic and dynamic, and met with a newfound understanding of the skill possessed by the older children. Even the lackluster ones, whom Tom had taken for fools, show a cool and concise knowledge that he had not noticed before.

Unfortunately, his guide interrupts his study when he walks up to him.

“Been training up on those jinks, Riddle?” Tom sits to Ximena’s left, looking up at the older boy as he bites into an apple, “Heard you got some special tips from Acarya last week.”

“Just some advice, no real spells.” Disappointment is laced through his words, but he is anything but, “And demonstrations!”

“Aye, I bet that was a sight to see. Well don’t worry about her, she’ll loosen up in no time, Acarya’s a tough nut to crack.” His shoulders roll back in a stretch, “She’s worse than Lane here,” a hand slaps gently on her back in jest. She hmphs. “Didn’t bother to supervise our little house member at his lessons last week?”

“She’s good at what she does.” A simple and honest answer. He prods out more.

“Oi, I know you’re quiet, Lane, but I would call her more than _good._ ” A coy, albeit conniving, smile, “Or are you _jealous?_ ” A wink at Tom.

Ximena blinks once, tilting her head back for a moment, mouth ajar in thought, “...No.” She nods once, satisfied with her answer, and returns to her book.

“ _If you say so._ ” The buffoon is unsatisfied, “Don’t worry, Riddle here knows that one in the hand is worth two in the bush.” What in the Goddamn. “Awful nice of you to finally share him with the rest of us. though.”

 _For Merlin’s sake_ , what is he doing? Tom wants to know about her past, not about her _feelings_.

She spares a glance at Tom as if she hadn’t realized he was there, “I’m not his keeper.” Voice as calm and even as a glass of water on a sturdy table, “Acarya is a good student. He’ll learn a lot from her.” This, Tom knows by himself of course, but somehow hearing it from her own mouth solidifies his faith.

The current duel between two sixth year boys ends in a painful draw, and they clear the area swiftly before the next announcement is made:

“Let’s call on some students who haven’t been active, yes?” The professor drawls out teasingly, turning her wand in her gloved hands, “Miss Lane? Miss Acwellan?”

It takes Ximena a moment to register her surname (she was busy scratching the side of her thumb with her index finger, as one does), and when it finally processes, she looks about as nervous as a first year at their first flying lesson. The crowd, however, feels about as _excited_ as a first year at their first flying lesson.

 _Miss Acwellan_ , on the other end of the room, is someone Tom has only spoken to in the classroom. They share a cauldron in Potions, and it took about four seconds into their first conversation for her to swear like a sailor and repel him for the rest of the hour. Perhaps since she’s here as a first year, he was mistaken to do so.

Hedwig[2] Acwellan tosses her hair out of her eyes with a quick headbang to the side, face blank and body language confident. Her sister beside her warns her of cockiness, and is quickly spurned off with a rude hand gesture. That’s better. Tom almost didn’t recognize her without her lack of manners (her silence is uncanny when she wears it, if he does say so himself.) She steps forward to the set dueling area, drawing her ashwood wand from her expensive robes and aims it squarely at her opponent, not bothering to bow first.

Ximena Lane gathers herself from whatever place her head was at before this moment and steps forward to face Hedwig, chin tilted upwards and back straight. The look in her eyes makes Tom tense as she reaches for her own wand in the depths of her sleeve:

A small branch, perhaps about 25 centimeters, with sprigs of leaves appearing to be growing out of it. Two thick and stiff vines intertwining together. To Tom, it looked like two green snakes coiling around each other. Ximena raises it awkwardly, as if she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with it. She does not bow either.

“Begin.”

The match does not erupt in sparks and light as the previous ones did, but rather with held breath and sizing up. Some students are disappointed, and attempts to egg both witches on start. Tom, of course, is silent: eagerly awaiting the next few moments…

Hedwig moves first, with the narrowing of her eyes and a fast flick of her wrist, her well known booming voice fills the room as her first spell is cast,

_“Lacarrnum inflamari.”_

Spitting fire licks its way to Ximena, who only stands still and causes the hair on the back of Tom’s neck to rise. The chill does not subside as the fire forks in front of the girl to avoid her--Without a movement of her own wand. In fact, Ximena looks to be unable to move out of...Nerves?

_“Exerte statum.”_

A bright light and gust of wind blaze through Ximena and leave her short hair wild, but she remains unharmed. A few students lingering too close to the parameters behind her were shoved violently back. Still, she does not move.

“ _Bombarda._ ”

Hedwig cannot be discouraged. Her confidence does not wain, and her knowledge of spells is heavy (in fact, it was quite annoying to Tom because they were spells he didn’t know himself and maybe he really was too hasty in writing her off--). With every spell, she has strided forward closer to Ximena, as if physical closeness would help.

A half moon crater erupts before the silent witch, crumbs and chunks of jagged stone blowing in varying directions with dust clouds. The crowd in the front of the spectacle cough and wave their arms, but Ximena remains the same.

At this, students were, to put it lightly, uproariously taunting and cheering on Hedwig all at once. The professor overlooking their session looked pleased and intrigued by the duel, despite her instructions to keep the spells at a first year level[3].

“ _Show her who you are!_ ”

_“You can’t manage to beat a mute?”_

_“Where are your knickers, Acwellan!”_

Her onslaught continues onward, with spells and hexes of varying natures and levels without much change. His fellow students grow eager. Bellicose. With the tension of a tightly wound lute string, they all seem ready to pounce on Ximena themselves to get her to do _anything._ Move, speak, cry, attack--

“Don’t get cocky.” Hedwig’s sister’s voice rings as clear as a bell through the chaos, and Tom spares her a glance: she bares the look of the wise older sister. Patient and all-knowing. For a moment it makes his eyes narrow before…

“Expelliarmus.”

The wrist holding up her wand appears to snap to her right like a rubber band before rippling out through her body: Ximena is visibly shaken and she stumbles to find her balance with her eyes on the ground before looking wide-eyed up at Hedwig and the bare wrist still holding up her unusual wand. Hedwig’s smirk is the loudest thing in the room.

“Stupify.”

**_“Titexicoz.”_ **

So quick and quiet, Tom could barely make out the words, a spell at last leaves Ximena’s lips, forming a bubble-like sphere of particles that rushed outwards to meet Hedwig’s stupifying spell.

White hair is thrown back as the once shield envelopes Hedwig, throwing her back into her sister’s arms, meters away, and fluttering her robes violently. The effect dies a silent death in a silent room as everyone pauses to access what had happened. Tom stays rigidly still, watching and waiting, eyes darting from Ximena to Hedwig. Hand closed tight in a fist.

Again, Hedwig reacts first.

“I--I _won._ ”

Audible noises of confusion fill the room as her sister’s hand moves hair out of Hedwig’s face and feels her head for any bumps, “ _What?_ ”

“I won.” She repeats, thinking the other misheard her, surely. “I won, didn’t you see? She finally fell back, she’s disarmed, _I won._ ”

A call for the professor is given, and Tom’s gaze locks solidly on Ximena:

Fresh sweat on her brow with heavy breath as if she had ran a marathon, her body appears to curl lightly into itself like a dry leaf. Left hand cradles her right wrist as if it were broken, wand slack in her fingers. The girl stares in disbelief at her own skin, and Tom’s lips wind into the satisfactory smirk of someone who knows more than he should know as he slips the torn beaded bracelet from his hand into the sleeve of his robe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] If my research is correct on Polish patronyms, Kowalska is how you would say Mrs/Ms Smith, and Kowalski is how you would say Mr Smith. The professor is just better w/ language, and calls the student by how she would be called in her homeland. Legally, though, she’s Kowalski.
> 
> [2] Hedwig is legit the name of an old OC. I decided to use her here, she’s a pistol.
> 
> [3] A few of these spells are used by first years/younger students in the books and movies, but I figure that (like real education), what’s hard in the past becomes easy in the future. Kids today are learning stuff I was taught in 7th grade whilst in 3nd grade classrooms. Wild.
> 
>  
> 
> i whole ass did this, right after i told myself i wouldn’t and that i would leave this idea alone and work on other things, i’m so mad @ myself
> 
> Everytime a chapter on this site ends in an unsatisfactory cliffhanger, I say aloud “You really gonna do this to me, huh?” and I hope I don’t do that here.
> 
> “Yo are you really going to pollute another fanfiction of yours with ocs and plots not related to the main characters or main plots?”
> 
> 1\. It’s really hard to write in this era/timeline of Harry Potter because there’s little canon students to fill in the background. Thus: you have to deal with some of my witch ocs.
> 
> 2\. There are names to “remember”, but they will filter in and out as the plot requires them to.
> 
> 3\. I didn’t intend to make any more chapters, so Tom’s mentor/guide still has no name, cries.
> 
> I wanted to use this story as a platform for world building, propaganda, and common sense, but then I saw that people actually were reading this, and I thought “y’all aren’t here for this, y’all just want some good ol’ fashioned tom riddle diddlin’ to happen, huh?”
> 
> I talk a lot of shit about how Tom Riddle stories like this are laden w/ historical inaccuracies, book/movie inacuracies, clichés, and plotholes, but in the end, as long as you have fun and stay away from racism/homophobia/sexism/etc in your stories, who cares what I think? Enjoy your fantasies and self-indulgence, I say. Make friends and write a lot. Enjoy your youth, one day you’re 15 and reading Quizilla reader-inserts, and the next, you’re 22 and rent is due on Monday.
> 
> Anyways, my point is: I’ll try to write with a balance.
> 
> I’d appreciate concrit and general social contact, but I understand if I’m not popular enough to warrant it :’^) I’m often a silent reader myself.
> 
> Thanks to Lion for reading over the story u.u <3


	3. Their Severance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone keeps touching Tom's things. Ximena has a panic attack.

When Tom wakes up to the sound of rain, the first year boy’s dormitory is empty and cold, and he _knows_ immediately that something is wrong because he’s the only one who gets up early in this place because he’s the only one who takes himself seriously. The answer to why and where is quickly answered, however, as he dresses himself and walks down to the Slytherin common room to a noisy and growing crowd of his housemates cluttering around some poor witch or wizard sitting at a table--His first instinct is to roll his eyes and move past them to head to breakfast, but a piece of dialogue hooks itself to his ear: _“How could you protect yourself like that without words or moving your wand?”_ And of course, he _has_ to investigate. For research.

There are few times, such as now, when Tom thanks his small size as he brushes and pushes past children bigger than he, and is able to squeeze into a space inside Ximena’s nonexistent personal bubble. Her hands are clenched tight around a book in her lap and her body language screams discomfort. It’s almost amusing for him to see.

Mostly though, he wants the attention she’s getting.

Tom opens his mouth to catch her heed, but--“Holy fuck, Lane,” --his thoughts are interrupted by none other than yesterday’s loser, “You really had me taking the piss yesterday, I have to learn that spell you used, it came out of nowhere!” Hedwig slams her hands on the table and leans in uncomfortably close to Ximena, “I didn’t even hear you say it! What, were you hiding it somewhere in that beanstalk body?”

Ximena continues playing with the fabric of her robes and smiles uneasily at Hedwig, shoulders cinching up, “Ahum...I’d be happy to help you.” She swallows a lump in her throat, “Maybe later?”

As the foul-mouthed first year continues on, Tom watches with increasing irritation and growing possessiveness of _his_ teacher.

“Riddle, you’re awake!” He’s suddenly noticed by his mentor, who places a hand on his shoulder in an over-familiar way, “Looks like you’ll have some competition, eh? Nice of you to finally share Lane with the rest of us.” Tom wants to wipe that smile off his face, “Now we understand why you’re so buddy with her.” He laughs, as if he had told a joke.

Yes, now they understand.

\---

Heavy rain pelts angrily at the windows of his transfiguration lesson, almost drowning out Dumbledore completely were it not for his powerful vocals. The lecture, though fascinating, inspires little interest at the moment. Tom’s hand moves and takes notes dutifully, but his mind wanders every few seconds. Sometimes to the subject at hand, sometimes to the current situation at hand.

Speaking with Ximena has been an impossibility since dueling club. Few students approached her on her way out of the hall that day, and slowly he noticed more and more of them coming at her. He _supposes_ he should have known better than to be surprised at yesterday morning’s apparent _Ximena Fan Club_ meeting, but if you had only _seen_ how some of these children treated her before this, well…

On their way to dinner the previous night, Ximena had excused herself and shuffled away from Tom before he could get a word in. He wasn’t (and isn’t) concerned at all, but her flighty behavior is cause for curiosity. Usually, she’s as collected and as dignified as a lioness, it’s something he likes about her. But now an animal he would compare her to is a scared sparrow. This morning, even, when he was walking to his DADA class, he had spotted her crouching behind a half-wall in an attempt to hide from what he could only assume were attention mongers: a far cry from the cool and concise girl of only a few days ago. A part of him wants to grow bored of her and her behavior, but another part relishes to see her so uppity. Perhaps if he jumped out at her or spooked her, she would scream or hop in fright!

His toad, Ambrose, croaks quietly, looking almost longingly out the window at the wet world outside. Tom shushes him lowly.

“...Of course, don’t go looking for any Mandrake leaves,” Dumbledore chuckles, remembering some long ago memory, “The plants are, of course, poisonous and notoriously acidic. We wouldn’t want to fill up the hospital wing with you all. Might I suggest Perilla leaves instead? They’re...”

...Yes, maybe that was the answer. Tom tails Ximena like a ducking to his mother, but every once in a while, she manages to whisk herself away somewhere. Rather than admit that she could outsmart him, it’s only reasonable that she be...

This morning, he had spotted her walking briskly away from a small horde of eager Ravenclaws, loud with questions. Eyes darting around for a proper escape, she brushed right past him without noticing him and turned a sharp corner. When the students caught up to her, they expelled noises of confusion, and when Tom went to see what they were talking about, he saw only a dead end[1].

His quill hovers over the next page in his notes, dripping ink onto the clean sheet. The mar disgusts him.

Dumbledore’s lesson ends with a reminder on an essay due Friday, and as Tom and his fellow students gather up their materials, he calls his name and asks him to approach his desk.

“Have a seat, please.” Tom blinks as a chair that was not previously there presses against the back of his knees. When he sits down, his feet dangle. “Something on your mind, Tom?”

Several somethings. “Sir?”

His professor chuckles, shaking his head, “Only curious, you looked deep in thought, and I was not entirely convinced that it was related to the lecture.” His hands fold over each other, “Getting on well with your housemates?”

“Wonderfully, sir.” He’s a rising star.

“Good, good.” Dumbledore says this less to Tom and more to himself, as if he were assuring himself of something. “I’ve been hearing several fastidious rumors about the Dueling Club’s last meeting,” From who, Tom wonders. “worried about Miss Lane?”

It absolutely irks him how much Dumbledore knows. He looks at Tom, and he feels on display. Like all his stolen goods back at Wool’s were out before him on a table set pretty and organized.

“Mmm.” Dumbledore continues with reserved interest when Tom does not respond, “She has changed little since I came to her a year ago.”

Tom sets down his hands on the table, head tilted, “You found her like you found me?”

“On a rainy Sunday afternoon, yes.” He comments, gazing out the window, “I cannot say the circumstances were exactly the same but...” Withholding information from the boy only makes him want it with more fervor. He wonders if he stops talking to keep him from knowing something or for the sake of Ximena’s privacy. “Miss Lane, I believe, is very alone.”

Professor Dumbledore pops one of the brightly colored sweets from the dish on his desk into his mouth, “Perhaps she does not crave attention, but rather company.” Said as if it were something he had just concluded. He writes out a note in an elegant script before folding it neatly and handing it over to him, “To excuse you for any tardiness on my part, Tom.” He winks, eyes twinkling, “Stay out of trouble, the prefects are always harsher on rainy weeks.”

Strange man, though correct. Even Tom, a model student, finds himself being scrutinized by the older students during rainy days. Back at Wool’s, he always thought it ridiculous that the mood of the matron and caregivers were so affected by something as little as rain. It’s not like they had anywhere to go, anything to do. No automobile to keep clean, no garden to keep safe, no decent shoes to mourn.

He feels an ugly nostalgia overcoming him as he walks through the corridors to his next class, eyes sliding over the grey castle and sky, the dirty puddles of water lingering on the sides of the halls, and the distant sight of Quidditch players practicing in the miserable rain. Tom freezes. He is seized by the terrible, awful thought, that if he blinks, he will be back at the orphanage. His eyes shut tight as he stops in his tracks, counting. One...Two...Three…

A lungful of musky, wet, cold air, he plunges his hand in his pocket and squeezes. Squeezes so tight, he is sure that his knuckles turn white. Safe. He is safe at Hogwarts. Safe away from Wool’s. Safe alongside his fellow witches and wizards.

He opens his eyes and rushes along to the end of the corridor.

\---

The sun is elusive the rest of the week, and almost as hard to catch as Ximena. Were it any other situation, Tom would simply use up the time by getting to know more of his classmates or buttering up the professors, but no matter who he talks to during free period or where he sits at lunch, the little witch seems to slip into the conversation one way or another. It’s annoying. Everyone is putting their filthy hands all over his things. Everyone isn’t paying proper attention to him. Everyone seems to know more than him.

_His spot_ has been taken up by all manner of people: first years, half-bloods, Gryffindors, Quidditch players, none of which Tom has ever seen talk to her before. He ease drops when he can and catches the most arbitrary and stupid questions being pegged at her, and he absolutely does not fume in jealousy when she answers every. Last. One. Of. Them.

Sure, alright, her answers were about as helpful as the ones she gave him but that’s different. He has a limited amount of answers and conversation with her that he uses wisely and strategically, because when she’s done talking, she’s done. This is leagues different from the ridiculous inquiries given by the others. _“Is silent magic common?” “What are you eating?” “Where did you learn English?”_ Ximena awkwardly answers as much as she can before she figures out an excuse to hurry away--Often with a first year or two trailing behind. She’s even stopped carrying her beloved books around. For what reason, Tom isn’t sure, but he speculates it has something to do with his hunch that she’s not allowed to be reading them.

He substitutes his time with her by reading the book she let him borrow. By now, he’s figured out that it’s a basic introduction to curses written for someone perhaps three or four years ahead of him. Already, he’s plowed through a good two-thirds of the way through it with his own annotations written in the margins alongside Ximena’s neat, printed script (he, himself, had made sure to only write in his best cursive). As for deciphering her notes, he had to take it upon himself to sneak into the fifth years and above section in the library to find a ‘ _simple translation spell._ ’ Her notes now read much easier, but there are some words that absolutely refuse to morph into English. Of course, these are the words and phrases that interest him the most. The ones that are underlined twice or circled to show importance.

For example, _Tiger’s Eye will not protect you at sea or at night?_ And then under it, _Nya b’a’n tu’n tchub’ key toj b’e, ku’n nlay ch’iyl twey_? Which at first, Tom interprets as Ximena having an aneurysm on paper. The translation spell he chose first has no effect on it, and neither do the second, third, or fifth or tenth ones after it. Irritating. ‘ _The notes aren’t important to your questions.’_ Bollocks. She’s hiding something and he’s going to find out what it is. With or without her cooperation. Or help.

As for what a maledictus is, he hasn’t gotten to that part yet. He expects to reach it soon, as the only two sections left in the book are curses that are hereditary, and curses that transform the victim into something else. It’s in this section that holds the majority of ink from Ximena’s pen, which has him all the more pressed to find a spell that actually works on whatever second language she writes in--He’s damn sure she knows just the right one, but he can’t ask...

It’s okay, though, he tells himself, because eventually her popularity and their separation will be over and things will have returned to how they should be. Ximena will be done with their classmates’ capricious admiration, and be entirely focused on...What she should be focusing on. Which, just so happens to include him. Completely by coincidence.

He expects it to happen by the end of the week.

His solace, and console, is Potions class. Professor Slughorn is a knowledgeable, gullible idiot who seems determined to get into his good graces. As if he were a lord and Slughorn a pathetic, gleeful jester. Occasionally, when Tom is alone in the dormitories, he pretends to order Slughorn (and a few others) around. The adults at Wool’s, older students, world leaders he sees in books and hears about on the radio...He gives out commands and makes him do his bidding. Decrees and laws are laid out for them to follow. Sometimes, Ximena is there, in his imagination, and sometimes she is not. Usually though, she is sitting in his mind, watching him and nodding along in approval or agreement with his actions. His game brings a wonderful thrill to his soul, and makes him ever more impatient to come into his destiny.

“Fuck’s sake, look alive, Riddle.” His ill-mannered Potions partner mutters as Slughorn makes the rounds from table to table, “You’ve had your bloody head in the clouds all week, have you finally lost it?”

It takes more than he thinks to refrain from giving her a nasty hive hex for speaking to him like that, and instead he blinks owlishly, “Sorry, sorry, just troubled.” No room for asserting his power when there’s this many witnesses.

Hedwig nods once, unconvinced, “Alright well, stop being troubled, there’s top marks on the line, yeah?” She blows a loose strand of cotton like hair out of her face before tucking it behind her ear, “And no one is going to stand in my way of it.”

His partner’s ambitions and good-breeding just about make up for the terrible company she makes, alongside her good knowledge of spells. Tom had, in fact, been meaning to ask her for a spare afternoon of her time, but unfortunately Hedwig (along with being gifted and on her way to the top) was also obsessed with the common stupidities of their fellow first years. There is also the matter of her protective older sister, who looks down at Tom for what he can only conclude is his unknown blood status.

Slughorn reaches their table and beams brightly at ~~them~~ **_him_** , “What can I expect from you both today, then?”

“A simple healing draught for bruises, sir.” Hedwig answers,

“An alternative to moxibustion[2]?” He raises a brow, smiling at the two of them, “I’ll be eagerly awaiting, then.”

When he steps away to check on the next pair, Tom turns to his partner, a bit vexed, “I thought we agreed on attempting to create a simple sleeping draught.” His voice makes it sound as if he’s upset and disappointed rather than annoyed with the nerve of the girl.

“This idea is better. He’ll be more impressed.” Her fingers dab around their table for the right ingredients, “You’re smart, Riddle, you can adapt.” She’s right, and she should say it, but _honestly._

Tom refrains from mocking her under his breath and takes a look at the ingredients set out before him and pieces together in what order and in what quantities they should put in the cauldron. Though his seatmate is brash, he admits that there’s sense in what she said: a few other top students in their class are trying for a sleeping draught. Internal healing is just advanced enough to set them-- _him_ \--apart from the rest. Luckily, she has half a brain and a good eye for quality ingredients, otherwise he’d have to carry the both of them.

Atmosphere peaceful and studious, Slughorn announces that he would be right back, and that if anyone were to need him, he could be found just down the hall in Professor Alder’s classroom. As expected, the quiet lasts little once he leaves the room.

“Hey, some of my ingredients are missing!” Tom glaces to his left behind Hedwig, to a Ravenclaw making an absolute spectacle out of nothing.

The student’s partner is quick to chime in, “Probably taken by Badi over there,” Cruel and accusing laughter is thrown at the shy, feeble, umber-skinned boy in the corner, “he can’t help it, it’s in his blood[3].”

“Feck off, you stupid sods.” Hedwig throws a spare stirring spoon at their classmate’s head with such accuracy, she could be a future beater in Quidditch, “Leave him alone before I decide to stop being nice.”

“We were just having a jest, Acwel--”

_“Did I give you permission to talk back to me?”_

Fumbled apologies are hastily given to the Slytherin elite as she huffs with satisfaction and turns her attention to Tom, “It’s so stupid, how they treat him. We’re all the same, in the end.”

“What do you mean?” Tom prompts, full attention on his potions partner.

“Badi is pureblood.” A well known fact, “Magic blood should stick together.” She states very matter-of-factly, sprinkling dried mugwort into the cauldron, “Don’t you think?”

The mugwort releases a smokey brown cloud within the translucent potion, and the smell of burnt wheat fills his nostrils before blooming into the strong scent of sage, blending in with the petrichor from outside.

“Yes.”

\---

Finding his quiet housemate is more of a chore than ever, now that there are countless others searching out for her. Tom repeats in his mind the suspicion that, like most fads, that his classmates’ interest in Ximena will die silently in favor of the next big thing. Like a new broom model or an attractive teacher. Luckily, he wasn’t jealous or anything about any advice or tips or lessons or general words of wisdom given to any student who wasn’t him. Luckily. He’s above all that nonsense. Besides, he was here first, and is more important than those...leeches.

Ehem.

_Luckily,_ Tom knows her favourite spot in the library to read in: a secluded corner behind a shelf filled with several dusty Mongolian manuscripts containing detailed instructions for brewing medicine out of mare’s milk [4]. There is a cozy red armchair that maybe one or two people could curl up in and sleep for a few hours because the painting sitting before it has nothing that makes any loud noises (a slow babbling brook and birdsong is just the right thing to lull a tired student to sleep), and more than once, he had followed Ximena to that very spot and sat perpendicular to her as she skimmed through that day’s tome.

When he arrives, however, he does not find her reading.

Since last week, he had noted the changes in her demeanor. Slumped shoulders, bagged eyes, unbrushed hair, and nervous tics, to name a few. Always looking over her shoulder, always sending second looks at any passerby, always double checking underneath her seat or book or arms…Tom first attributes it to her discomfort with all the attention, but that is only because he is very good at lying, even to himself.

“Ximena?” His face softens as his eyebrows rise and press together in concern. When she reacts to his presence with shocked bemusement, he continues, “Are you alright?”

Her lips form a thin line in thought, catching words before she’s able to speak them, “I--have...Have you...” She blinks, and raises herself tall in her seat, looking over his head behind him, “You weren’t followed, were you?” Her paranoia is almost comical.

“No.” He knows better than that. He wants her time for himself. “Everyone is at Hogsmeade.”

A shuddering breath of relief slides past her mouth as she relaxes back into the chair, “Oh thank God.” Her hand massages her temples, “They’re relentless. Beasts.”

“You don’t like them?” Tom walks closer while her head is turned away.

“I...” She begins, “...I am better in darkness.”

He kneels, placing his arms and chin up on the armrest, trying his best to look as _cute_ as possible, “Better when no one’s watching?” His eyes do not leave her form.

A subtle nod, “It is better when eyes pass over me. When no second glances are given. When I am just another face.” She squeezes her eyes shut, “I shouldn’t have dueled Acwellan.”

“ _But you were so good!_ ” His praise isn’t empty. Not really. “I’ve never seen you do magic before.” They both know this is a lie but--

Ximena looks at him directly for the first time in their conversation, eye contact and all, and pauses, “I wasn’t good, I was _prepared._ ” She pushes back her humid, frizzy hair and bites her lower lip hard. It blooms red. “ _Wand magic,_ what was I thinking, using--” A deep and sudden inhale of breath as she covers her face, exasperated, “And then I lost it! I lost it and I’m lost too!”

_What did you lose?_ Is next on his list to ask her, but it never comes out of his mouth. “Why is it important?” Ximena is not stupid, she’s caught him staring at it more than once.

“It’s all I have.” Her voice rises higher than normal, “It’s all I had when I arrived at the abbey.” Her hand covers her mouth as she shudders and blinks rapidly, “I didn’t know who I was, but I knew that was from someone who loved me.” Ximena’s voice is a weak and scared whisper, “It’s the proof I have. The proof that I am loved.”

It is here that, if Tom weren’t Tom, he would offer a hug or perhaps a comforting word on how she would find it soon. Of course, Tom is himself, so he does not know to do either of these things. Instead, he decides to lift his hand up and set it down gently and heavily onto Ximena’s free hand. He pats it once. Twice. And waits.

The red bracelet burns in Tom’s pocket. He can feel it. It pulls in Ximena’s direction, longing to be reunited with her naked wrist once again. His other hand encases it. Strangles it. Silences it. It’s his now. His only.

This moment, too, is his only. Her tears, her distress, her aching vulnerability. Her quiet sniffles and sharp intakes of breath are his. There are no ghost or paintings or even insects around with them to share the instance of fellowship. There is only them, the cold air, and the sound of heavy rain outside the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “Dead End” is the phrased used here in the US to signify that a road has no output/exit. I’ve had a few foreigners at work ask me about it in complete bewilderment, it’s adorable. I used it here because I think the phrasing fits.
> 
> [2] If you can guess where I learned that mugwort was good for bruises, I will give you/your character a lil cameo in this story. Hint: it is from a movie adapted from a book, much like Harry Potter.
> 
> [3] Badi is a Romani surrname, aka: g*psy surname. They’ve been systematically oppressed and stereotyped as thieves and scammers in Europe for centuries. The word ‘g*ypped’ (aka, conned, scammed, tricked, ripped-off, for those unfamiliar with the term) comes from the slur ‘g*psy’. The slur itself originated because it was falsely believed that they came from Egypt, when in reality, Roma ancestry hails from the Indian sub-continent. Yes, g*psy is a slur. The more you know!
> 
> [4] Shoutout to the Mongols for being the horse-obsessed fourth grade girls of world history.
> 
> DID Y’ALL FUCKING KNOW THAT THE ACTOR WHO PLAYED 16-YEAR-OLD TOM WAS 24 WHEN HE PLAYED THAT PART. GOD, NO WONDER THE LIL KID PLAYING HIM IN THE LATER FILMS LOOKED SO TINY, HE WAS THE RIGHT AGE.
> 
> Literally the only reason I’m set on finishing this story is because Lion (THE LOVE OF MY LIFE) likes it and wants more. Y’all can thank her and my gay ass, ty honnie for reading this over and giving Tom roastings.
> 
> I don’t mean to remind y’all of your junior year high school english class, but I fill a lot of my writing now and days with a shitton of symbolism and foreshadowing, so :D If you’re a nerd like me, and enjoy that stuff, I hope you find some good stuff in today’s chapter!
> 
> Thanks to aspiring cynic on FF.net for giving me my first and only reviews on this story!! They mean the world to me, and you are now my fave! Next chapter is dedicated to you!


	4. A-Tisket A-Tasket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has class outside and interacts with crows.

_A-tisket a-tasket_  
_A green and yellow basket_  
 _I wrote a letter to my mom_  
 _And on the way I dropped it,_  
 _I dropped it, I dropped it,_  
 _And on the way I dropped it._  
 _A little boy he picked it up_  
 _And put it in his pocket._

* * *

On the end of the boulevard where Wool’s Orphanage is situated, there is a little used-to-be-white chapel that has seen better days. Built in 1858, its walls are cracked and crumbling, the pews creak when the slightest pressure is placed on them, and it seems as if the original congregation is still around--Or so Tom thinks based on their deeply wrinkled faces. He and the other children find themselves there every Sunday on behalf of the matron, and usually he spends his time there swinging his legs back and forth in his seat and looking up at the grotesque wax statues of saints and saviors long dead. During the rainy season, it always floods terribly, leaving slippery floors and puddles throughout the building. Despite all these factors, it was (and is) a good thinking spot. The clergy there are fond of silence and disdainful of music or any sort of ruckus, and so he associates with it peace. No loud playing from the other children or scolding yells from the caretakers, just him and whatever knick-knack he had taken from another child that week.

It’s this same atmosphere from the chapel that he encounters when he and Ximena return to the Slytherin common room. Even the fire in the hearth doesn’t seem to crackle, and the rain outside has calmed down enough to be properly muted by the Black Lake. There’s a moment of pause at the fork in the room where the corridors divide into the boys and girls dormitories, and Tom looks at Ximena out of the corner of his eye, calculating.

“I’ll see you at dinner?” His question pops the metaphorical bubble surrounding her, and she blinks at him as if she had awoken from a deep sleep.

“...Okay.” No eye contact is made, she turns her body away from him and walks to her designated side.

“ _Ximena._ ”

She turns to him, and makes eye contact.

The silence sinks deeper into the room, into their skin, making Tom feel like a stone being pressed down upon a strong current, lying in a riverbed. A part of that feeling though, he is loathe to admit, comes from the taller witch opposite of him. He’s not sure what part, though. The cold washing over him? The deep pressure he feels against his skin, against his chest? The not being able to breathe? Being able to see what’s in front of him so clearly yet hazily. Separated by power.

“...Nothing.” [1]

\---

All of Hogwarts is in an uplifted mood the following day, and when walking through the hall, one can find themselves around cheerfully harmonizing ghosts, chattering students, and teachers with a little dance in their step. Warmth from the sun rays on his cheek is a foreign feeling after the great flooding of the past week, and the warmth from the school around him only contributes to the alienation.

Ximena stands out like an ink stain on a colorful dress.

As usual, Tom is right: the moment the last rain cloud cleared the school grounds, Ximena was left alone for the next big thing. Apparently someone’s cousin in Durmstag was a gifted fortune teller, and was open to receiving questions about the future via owl. While the idea appeals to Tom, he’s not so comfortable with sharing any goals or desires with someone he can’t make eye contact with or keep tabs on. Besides, he doesn’t need to talk to any distant fortune teller: He has decided for himself what his destiny is. Not fate or some God.

Sitting contently besides his...housemate on a bench in the main courtyard, he gives back the deeply studied and annotated book. Ximena, tired and hair tied back, looks up from feeding nearby crows, “Finished already?”

He almost quite literally couldn’t put it down, “I’m a fast learner.” Pridefully modest. Her hands take back the book delicately, and Tom preens when she opens up to the first couple of pages and runs her fingers curiously over his elegant script. That’s a look of approval in his book, thank you very much.

“That you are.” She retrieves a brown paper envelope from the bag at her feet to store and seal the book in.

“--You’re done with it too?” He tries to peek into her school bag.

“For now, I’m getting another.” From where, she doesn’t say, but Tom can tell by her tone and stance that, once again, she will not indulge his curiosity.

What a shame. He charmed the book for nothing.

The crow nearest them caws loudly, and Ximena returns to giving the birds bits of the flat maize bread. Tom eyes them with interest--birds and girl--and changes topic, “May I?” It comes out genuinely eager, and Tom almost makes himself cringe, but the feeling is washed away quickly by her immediate nod and exchange of food. The new giver of nourishment is met with some skepticism, but once he holds out his tiny gloved hand with the still warm morsels, the crows flock around him.

In silence, they stay like this until the hour ends.

\---

In compliance with the ridiculous idea that he has feelings for her (it seems to gain him sympathy points from older students), Tom has been looking at other boys’ interactions with the fairer sex and takes note. Since his second week at Hogwarts, he’s found it strange that anything in the world gets done considering how clouded men’s minds get when thinking about a woman. A boy sitting close to him in his Herbology class is already failing due to his inability to keep his eyes away from a girl six seats away (and eleven class levels away). The boy _knows_ that he’s failing, but it doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t he care? Is a pretty face really worth your education? Your future? Will the boy still stare at her when she’s moved on and forgotten about his existence? Grown old and wrinkled like a leather bag? He can’t understand it, particularly because some of the...tastes of his classmates range from questionable to annoying. Tom understands the beauty standards of today, and can _perhaps_ give a small pass on that in regards to judgement, but skill? Potential? It’s almost as if these things didn’t matter.

Granted, it’s been of somewhat use so far in inviting other students to talk to him (as stated before, he’s easily swayed the topic of conversation to more useful things), however, in his observations these past few weeks, he sees no similarities what-so-ever, aside from _(maybe)_ sticking close and initiating conversations, but isn’t that also done with friends? Sitting together at meals isn’t romantic (the candles weren’t placed there by _him_ , they’re the only source of light in the Great Hall), studying together isn’t tender (they’re alone because everyone prefers goofing around to learning), and walking side by side isn’t passionate (besides, she walks fast, and it’s hard to keep up.) What are they seeing that he isn’t? Is he missing something? No, that’s stupid, he’s an excellent observer, what could he miss? They don’t feed each other spoonfuls of food from their plates, they don’t look deeply into each other’s eyes for hours on end, and they certainly don’t send each other lovey-dovey notes during class (the later of which, his mentor is apparently infamous for--he’s been through a few girlfriends).

Ah right, his mentor. He had a _few things_ to say about Tom and Ximena. Even if (if) Tom had a _special liking_ to her, the older boy’s advice was unwanted, unsolicited, and damn annoying (he can court a lady just fine on his own, he’s sure. If he tried. Maybe. Probably.) Every so often, he drops a line about Ximena’s background that sounds promising, but when Tom bites said line, it only leads to more dating advice. What kind of eleven year old needs advice on that sort of thing? _Bring her flowers? Learn to dance? Go on a date?_ They’re children, where is there to go on an outing? _What is there to do?_

Of course, even idiots have their days.

“Don’t be a prat, Riddle, carry her books once in a while.”

An excellent idea--It’ll be much easier to skim through them, then. Or take them. Whatever comes first. He misses the book he borrowed madly, and wants so much to dig into another one. The hour with Yami four days ago has satiated him for a good while, but his mind grows hungry for more. He’s not entirely sure if he can wrangle up another hour of her time, though. Ever since his inquisitiveness on her and Ximena’s relationship, she’s been as callous towards him as she was before they were properly introduced. Scratch that, she’s been mannerly enough to greet him in the common room, pass him food in the Great Hall, and let him sit at her table in the library, but any attempt at conversation is executed with little fanfare. Something about it being “wrong to speak ill behind another’s back”, which personally just sounds superstitious to Tom, though to be fair, is there really such a thing as superstition to a wizard?

And so, he turned to Hedwig.

It is undeniably undeniable (redundancy deliberate) that he had made a hasty mistake in brushing his contemporary aside because of her uncouthness. Displayed in the classroom, and then a duel, she has managed to prove herself worthy of a second guess. A reconsideration. Even he makes fumbles, he’ll admit, but not very often. Ehem.

Also helping the girl was her status within the wizarding world. Rich and pure-blooded, people are already desperate to throw themselves at her eleven-year-old feet for the slightest chance of being grazed by the underside of her shoe. It was a different sort of commanding presence than Ximena. Two sides of the same knut to be cliché[2]. Ximena is admired silently. Like a pattern on an ornate rug or a beautiful tiara.She’s do-not-speak-unless-spoken-to-and-even-then-it’s-not-guaranteed-that-she’ll-acknowledge-you. She owns herself. Hedwig owns everyone in the room. Hedwig demands respect. Notice. Recognition. It’s annoying. It’s useful. It’s admirable. Being a part of her social circle is...favorable.

And so, he secures a personal lesson during free period.

Contrast to his past personal tutoring sessions, Tom heads outside to the crisp, cool Hogwarts grounds at Hedwig’s request. It’s chilly, still wet from last night’s downpour, but not altogether unpleasant. All the water from last week’s rains have caused an absurd amount of daisy-like flowers to spring up throughout the grounds, making the air sweet and fresh with perfume and dew. Far-flung, beyond the mountains, there is a faint rainbow pouring down from a distant cloud.

Walking along the perimeter of the Black Lake, he spots Hedwig alone underneath a tall willow tree playing cat’s cradle with a bright vermillion thread.

“Did ya bring the goods, Riddle?” Straight to business, as usual. Tom produces the coconut macaroons he had gotten from the kitchens earlier, and Hedwig’s face lights up like a lumos maxima spell, “Fuck yes, I knew I could rely on you.” She takes his payment eagerly and tucks it safely away in her dragonskin schoolbag before picking herself up and brushing off the grass from her elegant robes, “Did ya bring your wits about you, too?”

“Of course.” He never goes anywhere without them.

“Good, good.” She sniffs, rubbing her button nose, “Wand out, let’s get started.”

If Yami is a theoretical teacher, Hedwig is a hands-on one. Her idea of a beginner spell for him is _Levicorpus_ of all spells, and she tells him to practice it on passing Hufflepuffs ( _‘Don’t worry Riddle, that one’s my cousin, he’s a foul git, I’ll tell him I made you do it.’_ ) Luckily, he had read about a good chunk of them in the sections of the library he had snuck into with Ximena, so he didn’t dilly dally much on wrist movements or enunciation, it was straight to intention. Straight to casting. He’s not bad. Definitely not bad for a first year with no magical upbringing. He tries the spell subtly on the boy walking a few meters away, and really only succeeds in tripping him up a bit in the air, about thirty centimeters _(‘Aye that’s the fucking ticket, Riddle, I didn’t think you’d actually hit him on first try.’)_ He doesn’t have Hedwig’s absurd prodigy skills, but he tries not to let that bother him because she, like many, have years of practice on him: Dumbledore had mentioned the strict laws regarding underage wizardry, and it was obvious to him by now that laws meant nothing to old, rich pureblooded families. Well, almost nothing. Their privilege was just that: a privilege. Not a right, despite what many might try to argue...

As for abstract teachings, the most she has for him are intimidation tactics, of which he has seen before, most notably in the duel against Ximena. When he asks her about this, she sighs.

“Oh yeah, you can’t let people treat you like some kind of minge, you know?” She flips her wand in the air like a baton, “Be boisterous, and be defeated--As my sister can tell you.” Her face gives a sour look, “Lane never _did_ tell me about that spell she used.” A harsh sneeze. Tom spares a ‘bless you.’ “Thanks--I bet she’s been keeping it to herself, the bastard.” Hedwig cracks her neck, “Can’t blame her, though, I’m sure she likes the attention.”

Tom begs to differ, “You think so?”

“Oh yeah, that wallflower? I’m sure she enjoyed her time in the sun.” Another sneeze, “I don’t talk with her a lot, but my sister tells me about her.”

He perks up visibly.

The girl snerks, “Got it bad, don’t you, ya wanker?” A laugh, perhaps cruel and perhaps not, “Sis invited her over during a few holidays in the past. Not sure what for, they spent it away and locked up in her room.”

Tom almost snaps his wand in half, “Was your family alright with that?”

Hedwig snorts, keeping in another sneeze, “You’ll find my sister cares little about what our family wants or thinks.” She practices an impediment jinx on a passing fly, he watches it freeze in midair, “I’m planning to usurp her.”

For a foul-mouthed eleven year old, she sure is well spoken. Tom supposes that’s just what being a high-bred, high-class eleven year old brings you.

His eyes gleam, “Oh?”

“Aye, but it’s no damn secret, I tell her that every night at dinner.” Wand waving, she dances the little fly around as if it were a toy, “We’re always in high competition, it’s how we were raised. I actually fucking think our parents want us to fight to the death one day.”

The impediment jinx wears off, but Hedwig’s control of the fly remains. It wiggles desperately, pathetically, in search for an escape. After a rather violent sneeze, she complies.

“Lane’s unknown blood status doesn’t bother her?”

“Oh na, I mean, what kind of mudblood has those kind of skills, am I right?” She rubs her eyes, “Fecking allergies...And even if she _was_ one...Well, she’s no slag, right? We can make an exception for usefulness. She’s still a witch.”

Interesting.

“I thought maybe your sister didn’t like me because of...” He trails off, implications galore.

“That munter?” Annoyed, but amused laughter, “Ya no, she’s just creeped out by you. Thinks you look like a nonce.”

Ah.

“Oh.” Tom tries to sound hurt, rubbing and playing with the tips of his fingers in sheepishness as Hedwig gets another rush of sneezes.

“No no, don’t mind her, she’s just a pillock.” Rubbing her pink-ening nose, she dismisses his apparent hurt, “Doesn’t trust anyone, that one. Especially men.” A snort, “Not that you’re a _man_ yet, Riddle, no offence.” Some taken. “It’s a wonder she even trusts _me_ sometimes...”

“She trusts Lane, then?”

The allergy ridden girl ceases her wand fiddling, and a slight befuddled look crosses her face, “Huh...You bring up a good bloody point, Riddle.” A sniff, “I don’t think she does, I think she sees her as something to study...We’ll see, we’ll see.”

She switches the topic to spells again, and this time she goes over a few advanced spells taught to her by her family. The majority of them are attack spells, meant for duels and executions--The ones in the later category aren’t demonstrated, but she promised (half laughing) that he would get his chance should there be a war in the near future.

“The bat bogey hex is a big favourite of mine, it’s shut up my little cousins more than once, I’ll tell you that. It’s a little advanced to say the least, but if you practice now, you’ll have the upperhand in a few years.” She points her wand at a murder of crows nearby, “Try it out on those over there.”

A slight moment of hesitation, “They’re so small, won’t that kill them?”

Hedwig shrugs, “Perhaps.” A glance over at him, “They’ve been bothering the owls these past few weeks, attacking them, killing their young, being general pests--Either way, you’ll be helping out the school.” She shoots the hex at one, and it sputters in bewilderment as bats sprout from the nostrils on its beak. Cawing, it flies away to a distant tower.

“Balls.” Hedwig sighs, “Want to give it a try?”

Glancing up in the tall tree where the black birds were situated, Tom prepares his wand, recites the incantation, and deploys the spell at the biggest crow on the branch nearest to him.

It shakes, much like the victim of Hedwig’s hex, but instead of recovering swiftly, it tumbles pitifully to the ground as the formed bats fly away--beak torn grotesquely open. It lies dead and still. Above him, the murder cackles and cries in a chorus.

His tutor for the hour whistles, “Nasty. Good shot, Riddle.” Hands resting on her hips, she approaches the body, “Shit, they’re not going to be messing with you anytime soon.” Wand pointed, a spell he doesn’t recognize leaves her lips, and the body sinks into the ground, leaving only a deep red mark upon the grass, “I think hexes are your strength, have you been practicing before this?”

“I had some help from Acarya.” And a selection of her companions, but mostly her, “I learned a lot about them.”

“Aye, Acarya’s good--She’s a fucking roaring flame, really--but she’s so...” Her right hand rolls loosely by the wrist, “ _Radical._ ” A sniff of her reddening nose, “As bad as Lane sometimes, but at least _she_ doesn’t go around spouting blood traitor talk, yeah? Bloody embarrassing, that one.” Shakes of her head send her cotton candy hair outwards like fog. Tom purses his lips in both doubt and amusement.

“What’s a blood traitor?” He can assume but we all know what happens when one does that.

“What? Oh right right, I forget you’re a special case.” Her wand is twirled and spun around her fingers casually, “Wizards who mingle and associate with muggles are blood traitors. Choosing mingings over your own magical brothers and sisters? Considered shameful, to say the least.” Another sneeze, another curse. “Bugger. Learn what you can from Acarya, Riddle, but be careful who you make friends with here: they’ll decide your future in the wizarding world, for sure.” Her hand ceases its twirling of her wand, and it comes to a stop, pointing directly at him.

“Thank you, Acwellan.”

\---

In quiet anticipation of Hallowe’en, the Great Hall is decorated with an assortment of decorations, ranging from colorful, warm earth tones to the deepest of blacks. Though macabre, they are rather elegant, and Tom finds himself appreciating the atmosphere created. He wondered how wizards celebrate Hallowe’en: did they fly into towns and terrorize Muggles? Take treats and feast until dawn? Dance in graveyards and summon the dead?

The return of Ximena’s ever-changing books is a sign of normalcy, and he peeps up about it when he sits down next to her during dinner, placing his bowl of hot potato soup beside a skeletal centerpiece on the table. It lies open in front of her, about somewhere in the middle, he reckons, to a page with words he can barely make out in bold, faded letters placed at the top, along with insanely small text situated underneath. There are illustrations of plant life on the opposite page.

“New one already?”

His presence, once again, seems to shock her, “Yes, I just got it.” Her supplier works fast. “It’s good you came,” she shuts her book just as Tom was about to read the elusive header, of which he was only able to read: **_Pat...Albularyo_. ** The cover of the book is obscured by her arm as she pushes it away.

He blinks and shakes his head, “Sorry?”

She reflects his blink, and it’s the first time he’s noticed how big her eyes are, “I said I had almost forgotten to eat.” Damn. Shouldn’t have said anything. Resting her fingertips at the edge of the table, Ximena’s dinner blossoms before her: A bright green sauce drapes over tube like wrappings of what his nose tells him is chicken. It sits pretty and messily beside firey orange rice and black beans. To the side of her plate lies a gravy boat filled with a thick white cream that Ximena generously pours on the top of her food. Her drink is a steaming cup of foamy hot chocolate. It is the first time Tom has seen the beginning of her meal.

She lowers her head and clasps her two hands together in silence. Tom realises she is praying.

Finished, she finally begins, and his obnoxious guide saunters over before he can ask her about her meal. Sitting across from the two of them, he claps his hands twice, as if ordering an invisible servant around, and a plate with only a roasted turkey leg appears.

“Evening, comrades.” He says smoothly, not bothering to remove his hat, “Good to see everything back to normal.” His voice is laced with amusement, biting into his turkey leg, “The currents of fame are fickle, eh, Lane? Just like last year.” She nods, paying more attention to her food than to him. “Better hope Willow doesn’t call on you again this week, I guess. Or any other time in the future.”

Ximena stops eating. Blinking, she remains paused for a few moments before continuing, “I’ll hope hard, then.” Her free hand taps its nails rhythmically on the wood table. It almost sounds musical enough to be familiar.

“No ambition to be the top duelist? That’s not very Slytherin of you.” A chuckle, perhaps a teensy bit condescending, “I’m joking, I’m joking, I know how you work.” He gave no room for anyone to be offended of his questioning of her house placement, but Tom finds it is just like him to think that everyone around him is his audience.

“I am not a showoff.” Ximena corrects.

“True, true.” He nods, “Red and gold just doesn’t suit you like green and silver, yeah?”

Tom tilts his head, “But nobody wears their house colors.”

“It’s all in the soul, Riddle.” He forms a fist and beats it to his breast, “We’re Slytherins, our souls are made of the same stuff.” How poetic.

Ximena looks unconvinced. Perhaps she is about to say something on the subject, but his docent is called over by a rowdy pack of fourth years. He calls back to them with a dashing smile before he slips out of his seat, “See you later, Lane. Riddle.” A nod to the young boy as he trots away to his friends, turkey leg in hand.

“Chiflado.” Ximena shakes her head and continues eating. Tom isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or amused.

“Sorry?” He prompts again, for the second time that night.

There’s that look again, the look he _hates._ “Oh? Oh, yes, it um..” Her hand grabs at the air as if trying to grasp the proper translation, “Crazy? Silly? Out there?” A hum, “I don’t mean it in the worst way, really, but sometimes...” Her voice trails.

“I understand.” Completely, “He’s a bit of a buffoon, don’t you think?” He tries for a smile, friendly and relatable.

“A little, yes.” She sucks her teeth, “Useful, though.”

Tom knows how he’s useful to _him,_ but how is he useful to her?

“Did he tell you about the kitchens too?” His hands rest on the table, cradling themselves.

“Kitchens? What?” Having spaced out again, she returns to the conversation, “Oh no no, I, hm.” Blinking rapidly, she tries to orient herself, “His, ah, family, they’re well known for keeping records, you see.” She clears her throat, “Family trees, death dates, trials, that sort of thing.” Her hands reach for a salt shaker, “It’s quite nice for history essays.”

It’s quite nice for other things too.

\---

Excusing himself from dinner early, Tom catches a few precious moments alone in the dormitory. That is to say, he catches two of the _heaviest_ sleepers in his year snoring away on the other side of the room. Unsatisfied with this, he brings out his wand to impose an even deeper slumber, and casts a charm intended to bring a restful sleep. His housemates flutter their eyes ever so slightly before falling still, only moving to breathe.

Tucked away in a little corner nook, Tom approaches his bed and ignites his lantern with a flick of his wand. It glows steadily and eerily in the surrounding darkness as he removes his hat and places it neatly on its designated stand. Then, carefully, he slides out his locked trunk from underneath his bed and opens it, reaching his hand inside...

There was no way she would have noticed, he made sure of that. He tested out his charm on six students and a teacher: the book was unmarred by any other eye.

He shares his secret, he shares what he’s done, with the wooden side table at his bed and the burning gaslight of his personal lantern.

Before him: a single page, a single edge ripped. Pale taupe parchment, smooth and fuzzy with time, covered with pitch print and varied comments and footnotes from both he and her. In the strong, concentrated light, the ink from her notation sheens a deep dark red. It’s most heavily concentrated around one of the book’s many illustrations, of which is captioned:

_Fig. 1 Cornicello, cimaruta, and lunula: Italy._

And then, neatly below it,

_Fig. 2 Traditional azabache bracelet from Latin America._

He lays the bracelet splayed out next to its near mirror illustration and smiles triumphantly, his fingers lining it up perfectly parallel with the black and white drawing. _One step closer._

Tom leans his head back to admire the possession.

Soft scarlet red thread twined together with dark beads and silver discs. The discs, inscribed with symbols, shine dully in the lamplight, and chime quietly when Tom lowers them onto any hard surface. While they of themselves were interesting, he himself focuses on the beads: a mix of smokey brown stone--perhaps agate--and jet that lusters so beautifully, it almost looks as if there are rain clouds moving and glimmering inside of them. The painted dots on the surface of the small beads stare back at him. Do they acknowledge him as their new master? Their new charge? He rolls his prize back and forth on his nightstand with a flat palm, enjoying the sensation of the beads rolling against his skin and the coin-like discs flicking and tickling the ball of his hand.

He decides he likes his new toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] If you’ve seen any of the four versions of A Star is Born...well,
> 
> [2] I used knut instead of coin for the sole purpose of making Lion laugh when I read this aloud to her. I have the maturity of a 13 year old boy.
> 
> I was originally meant to publish this on the 18th of October, but I had no one to screen it to (my friends were busy, and I don’t like publishing something when only my eyes have read it), so I held it back until now. Thank goodness for that, honestly, because I made a ton of edits and additions (addits, if you will,) and I’m much more satisfied with this chapter than before. When I said this was slow burn, I meant slow burn. It’ll probably be another thirty chapters before they hug, lmao.
> 
> I watched Fantastic Beasts finally! Was surprised to find another Kowalski, cries, I didn’t do that on purpose, they’re not related probably. We’ll see where the character goes, if I mention her again.
> 
> The chapters before this take place over a period of weeks and/or days, but this one all happens in a single day. Bit of a change, but  like it.
> 
> Been doing an absurd amount of research for this damn fic, I hope it pays off! Students, family trees, faculty, spells...I want to be sure that everything has a purpose. I don’t often like loose threads, so if I ever go out of my way to mention or name something here...it’ll come back sooner or later. I'm actually conflicted on just how much information to give, allude to, or just omit completely, it's maddening.


	5. Poor Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is not jealous or scared or out of his league. Ximena has a life. Teenagers are themselves.

_Poor Mary sits a-weeping,_  
_A-weeping, a-weeping,_  
_Poor Mary sits a-weeping_  
_On a bright summer's day._

 _Why are you weeping,_  
_Weeping, weeping,_  
_Why are you weeping,_  
_On a bright summer's day?_

 _I'm weeping for a loved one,_  
_A loved one, a loved one,_  
_I'm weeping for a loved one,_  
_On a bright summer's day._

 _Stand up and choose your loved one,_  
_Your loved one, your loved one,_  
_Stand up and choose your loved one,_  
_One a bright summer's day._

 _Shake hands before you leave 'er,_  
_You leave 'er, you leave 'er,_  
_Shake hands before you leave 'er,_  
_On a bright summer's day._

* * *

When the wind blows around campus, it carries with it the scent of pumpkin bread baking. Of star anise and cloves. Of cold nights and mist. It bears the sounds of crackling fires and crunching leaves. The taste of apple cider. When it blows through Tom, it brings him a quiet sort of thrill. Anticipation. The leaves around him turn, and with them, he feels a  _changing._

Slowly but surely, Tom can feel himself creeping his way into Ximena's exclusive circle. So exclusive that, as far as he knows, he is the only one in it-The only one worth noting anyways. Her talks and answers have evolved from being vaguely helpful to generally helpful. The eye contact and acknowledgement is accompanied by her asking how his day is fairing. She still pushes him to do research for himself, but now she gives him the tools he needs. Titles of chapters, authors, manuscripts. Sections of the library, teachers, dates...There's seemingly no end to her encyclopedic knowledge, though she does occasionally stumble in remembering. Memory problems until the end.

Sadly, she has yet to perform magic in front of him since the duel. Hedwig told him she was skilled, so  _obviously_  she knows something. More than him. Her talents, what it felt like to be at the receiving end of her spells...Tom asks Ximena himself what spell it was that she used against Hedwig, and why she hadn't taught it to her yet. He got that same look of hesitation and discomfort that she gave the pint-sized witch just over a week ago.

"It's...Not for her to use." She clears her throat. "Some magic is personal. In the blood."

About to ask if she could teach it to  _him,_  he manages to stop himself. Something tells him she would say the same. It's not for him. He can't do it. Forbidden.

Naturally, the thought does nothing to kill his want. In fact, it only makes it stronger.

Tom doesn't give up, however: he asks about proper wrist movements and spells he learned from both Hedwig and Yami in the hopes of seeing her cast again. Or at least, see her peculiar wand. Of course, rather than doing  _exactly_  what he wants, she demonstrates using a breadstick. Or a napkin roll. And once, a very long fondue fork- _'I can't risk accidentally casting in the middle of school like this, we have to be safe.'_ Damn.

And then, one day: victory.

It is on a very lucky day that Professor Merrythought asks for a student to deliver a few assorted documents and books to the Second Year Charms classroom just up a floor. She doesn't trust magic on its own to deliver them, thanks to reports of intercepting students looking for answer keys or an excuse to steal property-And of course, the concerning number of crows gathering on the school grounds (they have a taste for paper, it seems). Tom, an upstanding student and boy, volunteers the moment the offer leaves Merrythought's mouth.

The universe conspires with him: he has no trouble with the staircases or any prissy Prefects, and he doesn't get stopped by Peeves.

When he enters the classroom, the Professor is attending to some students on the other side. Ximena does not notice him. Even when he stands, waiting patiently, next to the Professor's desk-only three meters away-she does not look away from the girl sitting next to her, nor the small balloon in front of her on the desk. Her serpentine wand is poised, at the ready. He too, is poised.

"Inflatus."

The red balloon, as expected, inflates quickly, growing big and bright. It stops at just the right moment before it grows too big. She bops it to her seatmate, who giggles,

"Gosh, this is so easy, I feel like I'm still in my first year." She bats it with her own wand like a tennis ball.

"We should just blow them up regular." Ximena sighs quietly, possibly ignoring the frustrated sounds of her classmates as their own balloons pop violently one by one.

" _How Muggle._ " Her seatmate smiles with her teeth, scandalized.

"How useful." Ximena corrects, looking bored.

"-A mudblood like you would know that, wouldn't you?"

Tom's eyes dart to the girl sitting behind the two: alabaster skin and dark jet hair braided elegantly, a glare on her heavy-lidded green eyes that could curdle milk.

There's no moment to breathe, he sees Ximena's eyes narrow dangerously-The snobbish girl's head snaps to the side, as if a ghost had yanked her back by the scalp- ** _SLAP_.** He hears the bone crack. She bleeds from her nose, to which she carries her manicured hands to cradle carefully, " _Ow!_ "

The seatmate stifles a laugh carefully. Ximena looks nonchalant and plays with the balloon in her hands. Tom himself, is the only one to see the look of utter satisfaction in her eyes.

Like many moments involving her, he keeps this to himself, and does not bring it up the next time he sees her. Finally,  _real_  magic. Real feeling. Though she had appeared underwhelmed by the spell, it did not escape Tom how much her classmates were having trouble with it. It did not escape him that she had attacked another student in anger. It did not escape him that she had done so with no words or wave of her wand, which was lying dormant on her desk.

He wonders who the muggleborn girl that was sitting next to Ximena was. He did not recognize her from his house, though he had not yet met everyone in it-He would have to ask around.

Tom does, however, know who the offending student was. Druella Rosier: proud pureblood, proud gossipmonger. On occasion, he had had the unpleasant experience of sharing a common path together, where he was interrogated over his blood status and family reputation. Being an orphan barely got him off unscathed, much less being in Slytherin. The girl, herself, is a Ravenclaw[1] albeit reluctantly, but she uses her position to prove that anyone  _smart_  and dedicated to truth will obviously see the inferiority of half-bloods. Let alone  _mudbloods and muggles._

Having had that nasty experience with her, it gave him a little amusement to see her be the cause of Ximena's annoyance. She is still, however, another potential ally to tuck away into his pocket for later use. Confident in his hold on Slytherin house, Tom wants to branch to the other houses through their ignorance. Prejudice takes his curiosity and questions as interest and agreement, and since he's a Slytherin,  _well…_

Tom puts on his best concerned face at Druella's nose bandage-despite having had her nose fixed hours earlier-and asks if she's alright.

"Oh Riddle! It was horrible!" Her pitch rivals a whistling tea kettle, "I bet it was Peeves, that fiend! He did this to me!"

It amuses him that she would rather pin this on that conniving poltergeist than admit that someone she considered her lesser got the better of her. He had heard  _lots_  of what she had to say about Ximena. And Zabini. And Yami. And others like them.

"He doesn't usually like to keep his deeds anonymous. Are you sure it was him?"

Druella looks indignant, "Of course I'm sure!" Her fists tighten. "What second year student knows how to do that?"

Indeed.

Tom tries to see if Ximena would do it again-Or something like it. He brings around conflict and bellicose people to her table at lunch and dinner in the hopes that one of them will incur her wrath, but the most that happens can be written off as them tripping over their own two feet, or spilling their hot beverages on their own. Nothing to prove it was magic like that  _slap._ He even tries to cast it himself a few times. He tries all day and the next, actually, fueling his anger and contempt at minor infractions. All he can manage is a sharp  _pinch,_  at least by what he can tell from his victims' reactions.

He knows ( _he knows_ ) how useless it is to be bothered by the advanced magic he can't do. Brilliant or not, he knows he has his limits. There are many things he can do with ease that his contemporaries don't have a chance at getting down until at least their fifth year. But there are simple things that they  _can_  do that he has tremendous trouble with. With the exception of few, he has little competition in his year, at least.

There is Hedwig, of course, who while ambitious, has different ideas of success than he. Well-educated and well-gifted, she glides through their classes with little issue, perhaps only getting stuck when her hubris becomes too much to make up for. Or when dealing with magic not originating within Western Europe. He suspects he is only ahead of her this year because she is not allowed to know what she does about more advanced magic and/or display it freely. It gives him time to catch up to the brat.

There is Nemesis Fawley, another pureblood elite with vast connections despite her young age. She is often the one he partners with in his DADA class for her extreme patience and perception. When she makes a mistake in casting or writing, she doesn't throw a tantrum or let something stupid like  _embarrassment_  get to her, she simply corrects herself. While Hedwig works hard, Nemesis works smart. Already, he's changed his note taking style to resemble her minimal, utilitarian format, and the results speak for themselves. Pragmatic and respectable.

Then, there is the student sitting next to him in his Charms class. She is a bearable, mute Ravenclaw, whom Tom suspects is either muggleborn, or just unnaturally excited about every damn thing they learn in class. Still, being mute, she already has an upsetting and unnatural handle on wordless magic at her young age. So Tom bears through his current class in grace despite the auburn haired girl next to him being physically giddy and  _patting_  his shoulder excitedly. She seems to be gesturing to the golden shell necklace she bears around her neck (of which Tom believes was a gift of some sort), and pointing hyperly to the assigned reading in their textbooks- _Magical Objects._

Tom raises a brow in polite curiosity and tucks that tidbit of information away for later. It's probably not too important-Some protection spell maybe, or perhaps if you put your ear up to the shell, one could hear her parent's voice.

He wishes he had paid enough attention in his first class to remember her name. It's damaging to his image to ask for it now after so many weeks of sitting next to her. Thankfully, she can't carry a conversation with him, so he can get away with 'good morning' and 'have a pleasant day' at the best of times. Maybe he should ask his guide about it…

Speaking of, his guide finds it just so  _hilarious_  that he's getting help from  _women_  of all people. Tom doesn't hold much of an opinion in the way of whether women or men are more capable of greatness in magic (yet), but he knows the world he was raised in. Back at the orphanage, all the boys were assigned chores like taking out the rubbish, cleaning the gutters, helping repairs, and escorting the younger girls when needed. Girls helped cook, wash, and care for the younger children-Something he was taught came naturally to them. He tends to agree with this, despite a few exceptions: Hedwig acts about as nurturing as a wasp, and Ximena was...Well, she hardly talked to anyone, and in the grand scheme of things, he hasn't been around her as much as he would like. She has patience around the younger students asking her about what electives to take the next year, but Tom's not sure if patience is a maternal trait, necessarily. He wouldn't know.

Girls are more responsible. More mature. They develop faster. Boys will be boys.

This isn't to say he hasn't been picking and searching for his own boys' club candidates-Mulcifer, Black, Lestrange, these were all boys within his year with as much (if not more) connections and potential than the aforementioned girls. They aren't as studious or determined, but they're much easier to charm and get into a first name basis with. A few of them try to bring up Ximena in conversations, but he quickly shuts those down. There's something stimulating about keeping a secret, he has always found, and he wants to keep the events and words spoken between them just so. Besides, she really wouldn't be appreciated with those boys: half of their activities involve being rude to other girls in their year, for starters. Luckily, his reputation aids him, and he doesn't have to brush her aside in favor of looking good to the other boys. His reservation of giving out information about her is vindicated by everyone's delusion of his lovesickness. It's surprising easy to keep up the lie, all he has to do is act naturally.

It is then that Tom wonders if Ximena is aware of his false feelings. The girl is only perceptive when she wants to be, and even if she has noticed his acting, she probably wouldn't feel a need to comment on it...Though, maybe that's why she's been growing nicer to him. Why she let him borrow her book and allowed herself to cry in front of him. A boy around his age back at Wool's once dreamt that another child had a crush on him, and when he awoke, he acted sweet on her for a whole month. If that was the result of a dream, then maybe this could explain her recent actions? Tom frowns. Ximena is also mightily good at not paying attention to what's right in front of her, if she considers it unimportant. It's a good thing his feelings are fake and he does not at all have a crush on her.

"Fifteen more minutes, class." Professor Alder draws out.

Professor Alder is a tall unit of a man who looks like he might be attractive if he ever smiled. He moves and sashays similar to a dancer in all his movements as if living was a performance of some sort. Tom thinks he takes himself and his class too seriously. Still, he's easy to understand and undeniably devoted to his students, despite his tendency to be easily distracted. Useful. Still far from the best.

Professor Merrythought, on the other hand, is wise and capable-A pleasure and privilege to have a teacher, to be sure, though Slughorn currently ranks first as his favorite. Merrythought doesn't underestimate him, but she doesn't let him attempt more advanced spells, even if he  _knows_  that he can do them. Slughorn spoils him, really; if it weren't illegal, he'd probably allow him a go at some seventh year level potions.

And then there's Dumbledore. While he clearly plays favorites (according to Slytherins, that is,) Tom isn't one of them. His weekly tea sessions have been a topic of interest with many in his house, though all he has shared has been 'he's just making sure I'm okay' which isn't a lie. What of course, he doesn't say, is that they've been starting to feel like interrogation sessions. Oh of course, the Deputy Headmaster would never treat a student (much less a  _child_ ) like a suspected criminal, but when Tom looks at him, he feels so damn  _small._  Impussiant. Tom has no doubt that Dumbledore acknowledges his potential, that isn't the problem at all. What  _is_  the problem is that he doesn't buy the poor little orphan boy act. Doesn't he know that children grow? Change? Learn from their misdeeds?

When the rain stopped, it was one of the first topics of conversation for them at their appointment. After what they had discussed before, in his classroom, he had been tense to answer just about anything regarding the situation, and he guesses that it showed. Dumbledore had, once again, asked if anything was on his mind. If anything was bothering him.

Damn coot.

What Dumbledore knows now is: Ximena has retreated more into herself than usual. Her short hair, once worn loose, is now constantly tied back with a black ribbon, only baby hairs sticking out defiantly. It's something Tom is sure only  _he_  has noticed, but she only puts up her hair for particularly stressful moments. Or bad days. The entire week she was relentlessly pursued by a good portion of the student body, she had had her hair up. It made little difference in terms of management (it was already out of the way, what with it being just above her shoulders), but he observed that it made her look a little older. A little more tired. And that's not mentioning the newly arrived eyebags she sports. Tom wonders if she spends her nights wondering about her bracelet now instead of sleeping.

From beside him, his silent classmate shakes his shoulders a little too aggressively in trying to regain his attention. He tries hard not to tell her to not ever touch him again.

\---

For six slow, good weeks, he has known his strange classmate. He's followed and accompanied, eaten with and read with, spoken with and shared silence with. It's a little sad, perhaps piteous, that she is the closest thing he's ever had to a friend. And she's never spoken more than one hundred words at a time at him (probably, he doesn't count  _every_  word that comes out of her mouth-). Does she consider him one as well? An almost-friend? A common face among the hundreds here at Hogwarts? Does she perk up when she sees him approach, or groan internally? Tom would take even a negative reaction at this point, her smooth, cool insouciance just about drives him up the damn wall. How can she be so relaxed? Doesn't she play? Run around until she's huffing and out of breath? Skip rope or some type of magical hopscotch?

It's strange, but he misses her despair. It was the first time he got to see her emote properly, and it was fascinating. All this for a bracelet? What did it mean to her exactly? How did she know that it was a gift?  _What do her notes on the page say?_

 _'Friendship takes time._   _It takes hard work and patience. Just like love.'_  He had been very young at the time, barely three years old and silent as the grave. A caretaker had been lecturing him on the subject of his treatment of the other children-Of their treatment of him. Before the woman's untimely disappearance, she had been, briefly, the kindest light in his life. He can't even remember her name.

He pushes the memory aside, he has  _time_ , but he was never particularly fond of being patient. If only Ximena were more outgoing and lively, maybe then he would have gotten further by now. He might have more than just her academic level estimated. He'd have...well,  _anything._  A favorite color would do, at this rate. He wants her trust  _now._

The two of them need time away from an academic setting, he decides. Free from the library and Great Hall and Dueling Club and the courtyard. Just a quiet area where perhaps he can converse his way into some much desired information. Relate to each other and their situations as being two wizards raised in the dirty Muggle world.  _Superior_  wizards, he corrects himself. Unsure of their magical heritage.

At first, when he meets her in the courtyard during a shared free period, he suggests having a walk on the premise of the castle feeling too stuffy, and he's delighted when she agrees after a moment of thought, having already thought about going for a stroll. He even offers to carry her books-an offer she takes with great hesitancy before his insistence. Eventually, she relents her lightest book ('Magical Plants and Fungi of the Zetlands') with a small 'thank you', keeping her heaviest one tight to her chest.

They sit together outside, surrounded by all manner of flowers and buzzing insect life. The sky, bluer than perhaps Tom has ever seen, holds up drifting white clouds that trace soft shadows on the ground. It's under the shade of one of these slow clouds that they find themselves under: Tom sitting criss cross, Ximena with her knees bent to the side, book open in her lap. He, himself, has his History of Magic textbook open with a quill laying in between the pages for notes. Alright, so it wasn't  _entirely_  non-academic, but he has another paper coming up, and it's impossible to tear Ximena away from reading. He counts it as good luck that they're even out here and at how nice the weather is being on this warmer-than-average October morning.

"Do they know?" He breaks the silence, earning a bemused look from his senior, "The muggles that raised you, do they know you're a witch?"

Ximena presses her lips together, humming lowly in thought, "On some level." She sighs softly, peeling a small clementine she had been keeping in her bookbag. The fresh smell of citrus hits Tom's nose pleasantly.

"Are they nice?"

A slow blink, "In their own way." The peels collect in a small pile on her open book. "They say magic is of the Devil."

 _Freak._  The word echos in Tom's memory.

"That's rubbish." Obviously. But that's not what he wanted to say.  _Do they treat you unfairly like they do me? Beat you? Yell at you? Lock you away in your room without supper? Are there Muggle children there with you? Have they wronged you like I have been wronged?_

His companion glances at him, offering a faint Mona Lisa smile, "You think so?"

Tom feels himself fill with righteousness, "You're special. You're a witch, you're better than they are. They're just jealous."

"That would be something." The clementine is split into sections by her hand, and she pops a wedge into her mouth thoughtfully. He can't tell if she's amused or condescending, "It would have been nice to have you there growing up."

His heart is a hummingbird.

"We would have been best friends," he chooses his tone carefully. Not too eager, not too nonchalant-Hyper enough to be seen as excited and adorable, cool enough to be seen as collected and refined. He can't let emotions run this conversation, "We'd play games, sing songs, never go to class." His ears can't believe what his mouth is putting out, it sounds  _so genuine._

"What kind of games?"

The last thing Tom wants is to be Muggle-ish, so he racks his brain hard for any mention of magical children's games he might have heard about-Something ridiculous like 'Don't Wake the Dragon' or 'Wands Up!' But nothing comes.

"Anything we want."

"Jacks and skipping rope and pick up sticks?" Her snack is almost finished, "Mumblypeg and blind man's bluff and boxball and red rover?" Another hum as she pops the last wedge into her mouth, "Well, we'd need more to play red rover."

"Nonsense. We don't need more. Just us, with marbles and checkers and hide-and-seek."

"Sounds nice..." The distance in her voice remains as solid as ever. Tom feels his excitement bubbling down as a gentle breeze moves through them, tickling him on the cheek and whisking past the blooming white flora. He breathes in, content. Closes his eyes. Counts. One...Two...Three…

When he opens his eyes, he looks over at his classmate and blinks.

Ximena's eyebrows are cinched together, eyes appearing as if she were looking a great distance away. Her mouth is parted slightly, breath held. Perturbed. Worried. Nostalgic? He has a sudden urge to touch her shoulder, but he suppresses it.

" _Ximena?_ "

"The flowers."

Another blink, he turns his head over to the great patches of flowers overtaking the fields. They bob and sway in the changing wind, from wildly to gently. No longer daisy like, but appearing to be more like orchids. He can spot butterflies and insects he has never seen nor heard of gathering nectar and pollen.

"The flowers?"

" _Don't they look like they're crying?_ "

He stiffens up at the question, both for it being unusual and also sudden. Tom takes a second look: the wind moves the flowers just the same but there's something  _different_  now. The arc made by the florals no longer looks like hopping or dancing. It looks…

_I lost it! I lost it and I am lost too!_

His gaze returns to Ximena, calculating. Her eyes, dark and black as pitch, feel endless. She looks like she wants to reach out. Grab at something. Perhaps even rip out all the daisy imitators from the ground herself. Until soil was imbedded in her nails and her palms red from digging so furiously. Until every last one of the countless flowers was weeded out and dead.

_CAW._

Jerking his head to the left, he sees a crow, settling down onto the ground. It preens silently for a moment before hopping over closer to Ximena. In its beak, it brings a gift: a flower blossom. The bottom petals are a bright scarlett, open like an upside down banana peel. The upper, inner petals are a deeper wine color, more closed and bunched together like red cabbage or a small peony. Small and dainty, it is dropped before her as an offering, and she picks it up gingerly, holding it up to her nose and letting the crimson filaments brush over her skin. Something about the flower-about the whole string of events, really-unsettles him. He feels it in his chest: a jittering, a tightening. In his stomach and heart and hands.

It is an exact copy of the white flowers surrounding them, dipped in burgundy.

Ximena appears calmed down, and she lowers the flower and verbally thanks the crow in what he identifies as a Latin language. She moves aside a good chunk of pages in her giant book to press the flower in. When she closes it, Tom doesn't bother to check the title.

The rest of the day, he keeps his distance from her. He is  _not_  nervous or worried or on edge about that crow and that damn flower. He just thinks maybe they need some time away from each other. On  _his_  terms. He has to think, look up crows, and maybe consider enrolling in Divination next year. Was there an Arithmancy class but for flowers instead of numbers? Do they learn about that in Herbology eventually? Good Christ.

He has to shake off that feeling, the feeling that he did something  _bad._

After their outing, he steps inside his Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom early and takes his seat at his preferred desk. The only others in the room are two Ravenclaws and Professor Merrythought, humming cheerfully at her desk, looking over essays. The only noise in the room was quiet chitchat and quills against parchment.

Sanctuary.

He rests his hands on his lap, feeling watched. Or on edge. Cramped. His hands need something to do, something to occupy themselves with-Tom opens up the desk in search of paper or something to fiddle with, and he settles nicely with a clear glass ball left forgotten in his desk by a student in the last hour. Inside its transparent center, it holds a white wisp of what looks to be smoke. Curious.

Tom tosses it gently from hand to hand, running the pads of his fingers over the smooth surface that never seems to smudge with his prints. Eyes pinned to a single spot on his desk before him, he stays this way for twenty minutes until the next student arrives.

Nemesis Fawley glides in the classroom like a breath of spring air and sits elegantly next to Tom, offering him a smile and a gentle good morning. He greets her with a nod, returning to the present and tucking the sphere away in his pocket.

"Aren't you early today?" Her posture is flawless and voice as smooth as butter.

"I'm always early, Fawley." Tom adopts a confused tone of voice, as if the other had accused him of something.

"Not as early as I am." Nemesis' aura is all around amicable, "You already beat me in quiz scores,  _must_  you also best me in punctuality?"

"Competition keeps one sharp."

"I agree." Her eyes shine, "My father would like you, Riddle. He's a member of the Wizengamot, you know. Right hand of the Chief Warlock." The platinum blonde smoothes a strand of hair behind her ear, wearing her pride like a glove.

"Wizengamot?"

"The high court of wizard law and parliament, Riddle." Her voice does not condescend, "Older than the Ministry itself; a Fawley has always served on it since the beginning, you know. More than the Bones family."

There's apparently a lot he  _doesn't_  know.

"Will you be next, then?" He flatters.

Nemesis looks a bit taken aback, though his flattery does land, "A...A  _witch_  in the Wizengamot?" Pink tints her fresh cream complexion, "My, that...That would be-" She laughs, "That sounds like a dream, Riddle. A wonderful dream."

\---

In the Great Hall, during lunch the next day, Tom chats amicably with Nemesis about a paper in DADA, and is about to throw his net to capture the attention and conversation of Yami (sitting nearby, talking quietly with his mentor) when his attempt is interrupted by a brash Hufflepuff with a booming voice, "Have any of you seen Nott?"

He lets the surprise (and a bit of the distaste) show on his face. Nemesis looks amused. Yami rolls her eyes and his mentor is the one to speak up, "Big Nott? Did he lose another bet?"

The older boy grins playfully, "Something like that." He leans forward on the table, hands on the edge, "Guess who Longbottom decided to have as a date this Hallowe'en?"

"Not you, since you're afraid of her brothers." His guide scoffs.

"You mean all her graduated and far away interning at the Ministry brothers?" There's a slimy smile if there ever was one, "Rethink that one, would you, mate? She's coming with me."

Nemesis lays her head on her steepled fingers, "So you're going to the Hallowe'en Ball? What's it like?" A look of perhaps anticipation or dreaminess frosts her eyes, "I've heard from my sisters it's superb."

"A Hallowe'en Ball is too elegant." He says, pausing, "And you first years are allowed to attend, so therefore it's a Hallowe'en  _Party._ " Fair enough logic, "It's pretty tame as a result. Just costumes and fun treats. Ghosts tell about their deaths, pranks are pulled, and at least fifty points are taken away from the most troublesome house. So all in all, you guys ruin the fun."

"There's a curfew." Yami interjects pointedly, "All third years and below are to be in bed by nine, and underage wizards by eleven."

 _"And at that point, it becomes a ball proper."_  He gestures finely with his hand, presenting his point to the group. "It's never a ball until Slughorn gets right drunk." The Hufflepuff grins with satisfaction. "I was lucky enough to see it last year with Chang, so I'm excited about it now when I can drink with him."

"That's not very Hufflepuff of you, Kowalski." His docent just seems to know  _all about_  the other houses, doesn't he? "I mean, what would your sister think?"

The older boy snorts in good nature, "I think I can handle her just fine."

Yami rolls her eyes and focuses her attention back on the papers out before her, muttering in a language he can't identify. Nemesis leans in closer, full of questions, "Slughorn? Really? He doesn't look like the type to make a fool out of himself-"  _Tom begs to differ,_  "-Are you sure you're not making all this up? Lying doesn't suit a Hufflepuff, Kowalski."

And then Tom loses his interest in the conversation, because he spots something out of his periphery. Something odd. He turns his head to look, to search for just what was strange enough to catch his attention. Of course ( _of course_ ), his eyes settle over where Ximena was sitting just two tables away (again, he can't  _always_  sit with her, he has his hands in a lot of baskets right now-), nose in a book as usual. Except…

Someone is talking with her. Animatedly. Not waiting for a response or any sign of her listening, this person continues on chattering-About what, Tom isn't sure, he can't hear properly from here, even if he strains and tries to block out other noises. He likes to think of himself as a bit of an expert on reading her (even if there was hardly anything to read), and finds himself a bit miffed and confused on the lack of annoyance in her face. Actually, if he were being totally honest, her face looks the same as it is when he is keeping her company: indifferent. He sees her thin eyelashes flutter as her eyes move over the pages of her latest tome, of which the title was partially blocked to Tom, thanks to her glass of milk (all he can make out is '...PARA NIÑAS').

As for the person speaking so enthusiastically to her, they looked absolutely unremarkable. Wild hand gestures, indicative of a hyper and uncontrollable mood, continually threatened to spill the glass of milk in his vision's way, as well as the other table placements. Their robes, while neat and in style, aren't anything to behold: they did not have the beautiful silk-satin sheen of Hedwig's expensive robes, nor the velvety suede of Yami's. It was a dull black with no subtle patterns or hints of other colors. Their hat wasn't even  _off_  at the table-

And then something a little more remarkable happened. Ximena's shoulders quiver, her head flinches back, and she  _laughs._  A laugh he cannot hear, but can view  _very very_  clearly. It lives for about two seconds, but it lived all the same. Bright and modest like she is. Her companion across from her appears absolutely delighted at their accomplishment. Tom wants to chuck his apple at them.

"...and Slughorn's just drooling at the chance to collect her, I know him-Tommy, what are you looking at?" The elder Slytherin boy has an annoying habit of sprinkling in  _endearments_  or just straight out dropping his first name every once in a while (older or  _not_ , he wants him to stop), but this time around, Tom can't find it in himself to be annoyed, "Oh." Wipe that Goddamn smile off your face, "Prewett? I should think not. Inter-house mingling is like  _that_  is, well..."

The younger boy spares a glance away to look up at his guide.

"Nothing to worry about there."

The Hufflepuff boy acknowledges the scene along with Nemesis. Yami eats and minds her own business.

"Ignatius?" Kowalski prompts, "Nah, his tastes are more Black." A snort is spared by his mentor.

"Oh, I don't know," Nemesis leans in a little closer to Tom, "they sure look cozy."

_"Yes, continue to gawk at two young children eating their lunch, I'm sure it won't be obvious to all the Great Hall."_

Tom is grateful for Yami's words because the group collectively darts their eyes away in a mix of shame, amusement, and nonchalance.

"We were just curious, Acarya, is all." His guide explains, looking absolutely shameless, "It's starting to get boring around here, you know?"

"Then create your own nonsense to amuse yourself with instead of spying on the love lives of Second Years."

Nemesis hides part of her face and smile behind her hand, looking down at her meal. Kowalski chooses this moment to skip away back to the Hufflepuff table.

"You know what, Acarya, I couldn't agree more, which is why I'm glad you're here, see now-" his elbows come up on the table as if he were proposing a business deal, "I was hoping to inquire on who  _your_  date was for Hallo-Where are you going?"

Tom tunes out his schoolmates again and spends the rest of lunch thinking about it was a good thing that he wasn't jealous, or things could really turn out nasty.

\---

"Who were you talking with earlier?"

"Hm?"

The common room is half full of Slytherins speaking in low voices about the latest on the Grindelwald front. Daily Prophet papers are scattered about, moving photographs depicting the devastating attack. Ximena is looking through one of them half heartedly, holding a half-eaten cookie in the other hand. Tom is sitting on the edge of his seat (an armchair perpendicular to her spot on the sofa), hands on his thighs.

"At dinner, I saw you having a conversation with someone."

"Oh."

"Friend of yours?"

He wonders if his impatience is showing.

"I guess." Ximena looks as if she had never truly thought about it. When she bites the cookie in her hand, he thinks she is done talking when, "He's nice."

"How?"

"He's my partner in Transfiguration, Dumbledore introduced us."

He sits up straighter, "What's his name?"

Then Ximena pauses, brows furrowed, looking as if she been hit with a confundo spell, "Ah...hm...Started with a vowel."

Nothing to worry about.

\---

It is Hogwarts one moment, and Wool's the next. He walks down the corridor of teacher's offices, but his steps sound as if he is walking across the courtyard back at the orphanage. He knows that sound very well. A brush past hung tapestries to his left, depicting scenes of witch burnings and hangings, and he does not want to see more. To this right are group photos of the children throughout the years Wool's has been open. The faces in the photos are faded or smeared, and it's impossible to know who each child is. Or if they even are human. Tom doesn't want to look closer, but he does. Eyes and mouth and nose distorted. On every face without exception. In the group photos, in the single portraits, even the people in the way back of the photo who weren't meant to be there: gardeners, passersby, rats.

His eyes search desperately for something-Someone. He finds her in a formal group photo of all the children currently at the orphanage, lined up neat and pretty by height. She's all the way, so far away, on the other side of the photo looking glum. His and her faces are the only ones in the photo who appear normal. Photo-Tom has his head turned, looking at her, but she is not looking back at the boy. Instead, she is looking straight at him.  _At him._  He knows it. Her eyes are dark and alive. Scourging. Tom feels them pulling him in, drowning him. They remind him of cockroaches.

Tom tears himself away. Forces himself to keep walking. Keep moving. Keep your head down. Do your time…

He turns the corridor and walks down the wooden steps of the pier before him: endless in the starless night. Under his feet and the boardwalk lies black water. It is rising. Slowly. Surely. He reaches the end of the pier, and stops short. One two three meters away. His balance is off, he's experiencing vertigo so close to the ground...

Ximena stands, toes over the edge, back to him. Beyond the great black deep river is a green light so bright and menacing, Tom recoils back into the trees, his bare feet touch solid soil and grass, but Ximena remains out on the pier with the rising waters. Her figure moves further and further away from him, and he moves too-The space between them stretches out while he tries so very hard to regain control. To stop being afraid of that terrifying green light of which looms in the distance.

His senior opens her arms out, welcoming it, embracing it, coveting it. She reaches out. She wants it. Wants so bad what is  _so close_  but so out of her reach.

Filled with the sudden sensation of wanting to stop her, he calls out.  _Stop it. Stop it, Ximena. Don't._  And of course, his cries go unheard.

When Tom wakes up, he is sweating, and gripping tightly to the bracelet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Not all Slytherins are prejudiced, but all prejudiced students are placed in Slytherin" my ass, that's lazy world building, that is. "Oh but Ravenclaws are too smart to be prejudiced" Honey, you obviously haven't braced the ugly world of academia.
> 
> So, funny story: I got stuck writing in this point of the fic, so I started writing things that wouldn't happen until wayyy later (like when they're both 16/17 years old later), and that worked out really well! Unfortunately, I didn't format this story with the non-linear timeline gimmick, so to suddenly pull that out would be weird. Looks like we'll all have to wait :'^) Lion wants me to skip to the teenage drama and angst already, cries.
> 
> For whatever reason, I can only write this story while listening to classical music. I recommend it, it creates atmosphere. Imagining Tom following Ximena around like a duckling is hilarious when you imagine it to the tune of the Turkish March.
> 
> At some point, I stopped and wondered if I really wanted to look up and mention every single faculty member and student that could possibly be at Hogwarts during Tom Riddle's term. I don't. I did it anyways. Looked into the politics of the time too. If it wasn't obvious by now, there's a lot of universe alterations...Buckle in.
> 
> Points to you if you know what flower that crow brought to Ximena! We should talk botany, all my plants are dying, help, cries.
> 
> Lots of allusions and references to other pieces of literature here, some obvious, some more subtle; if you spot them all, I commend you. I love well-read people, lmao. Speaking of-No one's guessed the mugwort/moxibustion question yet! On any site! I wonder if it'll ever get cracked!


	6. Lavender's Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ximena tells a story.

_Lavender's green, dilly dilly, lavender's blue,_  
If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you.  
You will be sweet, dilly, dilly, you will be kind  
But most of all, dilly, dilly, you will be mine.

If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap,  
You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap;  
Who told you so, dilly dilly, pray tell me why?  
That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,  
When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen:  
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?  
'Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.

I love to dance, dilly dilly, I love to sing;  
When I am queen, dilly dilly, you'll be my king.  
Who told me so, dilly dilly, who told me so?  
I told myself, dilly dilly, I told me so.

Lavender's green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue,  
You must love me, dilly dilly, cause I love you,  
I heard one say, dilly dilly, since I came hither,  
That you and I, dilly dilly, must die together.

* * *

The first thing Tom looks up the moment he wakes, is dreams. The second is visions. The third is Seers. He almost runs a trail to the library in his powder blue pajamas before coming to his senses: The library is closed. It is not a good idea to go out at this hour. Instead, he confides himself to the much smaller library within his common room. Most of the books are Slytherin records and history, as well as copies of pedigree certificates and detailed family trees, but his luck shines through and he finds two adequate books on the subject. He lays them out, open, alongside the torn page from the book he borrowed from Ximena.

He should probably return the bracelet.

He doesn’t want to.

The page he ripped out of the book explains the basic functions: protection against evil and malicious intentions. Specifically the Evil Eye. One of the books (the smallest one, it’s a detailed memoir from a Slytherin student in 1515 that reads like a manifesto,) is written by a _Seer._ It speaks about their predictions for the next millennium, cursed objects, and the sanctity of dreams. The second one is a basic dream interpretation manual with woodcut illustrations from 1624 Colonial America.

This is what he concludes after an hour of silent, diligent reading:

Bracelets like hers can rebound when taken away from their owners, particularly if they have been in their possession for a number of years. The magic from the bracelet and the magic of the owner feed off each other. Grow off each other. Communicate with each other. Like a wand and its witch. Even if the owner is a Muggle, the bracelet can bond strongly, and taking it away could result in a curse being placed upon the thief in question.

Luckily, he did not steal it. He _found_ it.

No, he wasn’t so stupid as to think that. He wanted to be, though. Ignorance of his situation is much desired.

As for the curse, it can manifest in various forms. Boils and misfortune are traditional, but he suspects that Ximena’s former bracelet has worse in store for him. That whoever gave her that bracelet has worse in store for him. It does weigh heavy. Heavier than any threaded trinket has any right to weigh, and it does so increasingly as the days go by. Perhaps one day, if he kept it long enough, it would weigh as much as an elephant. 

_Dreams,_ he learns, are not often caused by curses, at least, not in any recorded history at the time of the manual. Curses are about prolonged suffering. Dreams are, in the end, _harmless_ after all. Especially if dreamt by those who are not talented Seers, at least according to the author of the 16th century diary. _A true Seer ability is rare, particularly amongst Magbobs and Muggles. Most have_ some _sense of clairvoyance about them, but lack the knowledge to interpret or wield their abilities. Even in cases where one dreams of an event that will come to pass, it will be seen as coincidence or precise knowledge and understanding of whatever political, social, and cultural powers that brought said event to be._

A small piece of paper holds his notes, his handwriting rushed and looped. Notes about the black lake in his dream, the dark river, the bright terrifying light, the dark and combined hallways of his school and _home_...The dream book tells him he has to change. He is having a strong emotional battle. He-- _Ximena_ \--Wants change. Freedom. 

He should give the bracelet back.

But he wants to keep it. He wants to own its mystery. The very aura and history woven in its threads. He wants to uncover the meanings behind the carved symbols on the coin-like attachments--he hasn’t made much of a dent in it at all. He keeps getting mistaken for a Ravenclaw for all the time he’s spent with his nose in a book. His days and hours should be spent on practical knowledge and talking to other students...Not on this. 

But he does it anyways. 

The last time he had been this entranced over a stolen object, it was a small ring with a pink opal inlay--One that could open up, he later found out, hidden underneath the covers of his bed.-- The ring had belonged to a boy who regularly stole his food at dinner. Apparently it had been his mother’s. Or Aunt’s. Dumbledore had made him give it back before coming to Hogwarts.

A sudden noise rips him from his rememberings, and he freezes for six agonizing seconds before settling back into his seat. He marks his place in all the books and scoops them up into his arms, returning back to his bed in nervous silence.

He doesn’t have a goal yet, at least not a concrete one. He doesn’t want to be the pond scum at the bottom of the gutter, he wants to lift himself up by his bootstraps and _make_ something of himself. But how? Gaining friends and influencing others to do what? Will he look up approximately how many people have to die for him to be King of England? Hardly. That was a distant dream once-upon-a-time back at the orphanage when he didn’t know of his magical abilities. His ambitions must be updated. Before, he could only hope to begin his path to greatness after coming of age, but life has given him a head start. He has to use all his cards, but he has to use them at the right time.

Now if only he knew what half his cards were.

In his hands, he currently has his charisma. His show of innocence, his raw talent, his ability to draw people to him. His house: a threshold of power and resourcefulness. Many sneer at his lack of trackable parentage behind the comfort of their common room, but outside, they stand by him. A fortress to the cruel and judging looks from the other houses.

He wants understanding. Knowledge of these obtuse pureblooded customs. Patience for his unknown blood status. A foothold. He wants people to look _up_ to him. Come for guidance and wisdom and favors.

Tom wants to be wanted.

He slips the bracelet back into his pocket.

-

A week passes without him coming into contact with Ximena. He spots her out of the corner of his eyes, heading to class, heading to lunch, heading to the common room, and she looks the same as she always has: indifferent and lost in thought. A part of him, as always, is bothered that his presence makes little difference in her day-to-day life _(Does she miss him? Notice that he’s gone? Wonder about his whereabouts?)_ , but another part is grateful that she hasn’t confronted him about his sudden need for alone time. What could he say? That he wanted to pry her secret life from her damn hands, but got scared off because of some strange birds and flowers and dream? That he thinks her lost bracelet is driving him to insanity?

So of course, he confides (without revealing anything) in his house’s resident curse expert. Manages to catch her alone during lunch as she drinks her dark coffee, and pretends his questions have to do with an assignment.

“Ugly business, the Evil Eye.” Yami tosses her long black hair over her shoulder, looking tired, “You’ll see many a witch turn their nose up at it, but it’s far from child’s play: easy to get right, and easier to get wrong.”

Tom feels his hand itch toward his pocket.

“Charmed bracelets are common protection right?” He prompts.

“Oh yes, of course.” She holds up her left wrist to show him her own version of the bracelet hiding in his robes. Gold and red, with a sizable talisman in the shape of a hand with an eye in its palm. He recognizes it from the pages of the tome Ximena lent him, “I’ve had it since I was a baby, as is custom.”

“What happens if you lose it?”

Yami’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if she knew that Tom was up to something, but she continues, “I get another--But this one means much to me.” Her hand goes back down, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Lane’s lost bracelet, would you?”

Fuck.

“No, why?”

“Her magic energy has changed dramatically in the last two weeks since her duel with Acwellan.” 

He blinks, because it is the most forward he has ever heard her be. Blinks because he thought only _he_ could notice the change.

“Did she lose her bracelet then?”

“When Acwellan disarmed her--She got her bracelet instead of her wand.”

“How curious.”

“Indeed.” There is no way Yami knows...Absolutely no way, “I hope I don’t have to tell you the consequences of taking such a sacred object, Riddle. Or worse--Holding it hostage from its rightful owner.”

“I was raised with Muggles, remember?”

The look in her eyes tells him _‘We both know you’re smarter than that’_ , but she indulges, “Personally, if you were to steal my bracelet, you would die.” She says it so simply. So matter-of-fact, “I suspect hers is set up the same, though slower.” Her lips purse slightly, “Her kind have a special sort of relationship with Death.”

The hair on his neck rises. His fingers tap on the table. He opens his mouth, and…

“Acarya! I see you’ve saved us all seats.” _The buffoon._

She exhales sharply through her nose, mouth forming a thin line. Tom empathizes hard.

“I did not save anything.”

“You saved it without even knowing,” He corrects, sitting down with Nemesis and Hedwig in tow along with, and this makes Tom double take, _Ximena_ of all people. She looks a bit shaken up and woozy, holding her hand open to her chest as if she were trying to calm herself. Despite them all coming in a group, she’s strangely detached.

Hedwig places her hands on the table, aggressive as always, and addresses Yami, “I heard you were nominated for the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship next year.”

“You heard correctly.”

“Mentor me.” 

Tom blinks. Yami remains unfazed.

“You want to participate yourself?”

Mildly sour, Hedwig purses her lips, “Slughorn is trying to vouch for me, but Dumbledore thinks I should wait-- _Dippet_ is indecisive as always.” A yes, then.

“Why would I help out the competition?” The older girl remains impassive, but Tom feels a sliver of amusement in her tone.

But before Hedwig can respond, his mentor butts his ugly head into the conversation, “Come on, Acarya, think of it as a collaborative effort to advance Hogwarts over the other schools. A bonding of sorts.” His hand tosses and gestures casually, his other one readies a mug of hot chocolate, “Acwellan and you, Britain and India--A bit like estranged brothers no? Cousins?”

“If Britain paid back every last knut they sucked out of India, it would rightfully cease to exist.” Yami sips from her cup of coffee as his mentor chokes on his own drink. Nemesis looks uncomfortable. Hedwig cranes her head and listens. Ximena holds the smallest of smiles on her lips.

“That’s--Bit harsh, isn’t it?” His mentor clears his throat, wanting to quell the spark in the room.

Yami’s eyes are cold fire, “ _Come again?_ ”

He opens his mouth, and before he can reply, Yami cuts him straight off. It’s unbecoming. “Do you know what they did to them as punishment for insubordination? _They made them break wizarding oaths. They made them swear on their magic._ ”

The two pale girls appear varying degrees of nauseous. Ximena is unfazed and curious. His guide is just about withering in his seat.

“And that’s not even touching what happened to the Muggles.” Her mug is set down beside her notes, “Don’t try to lecture me on my own people’s history again.” She stays seated and silent. Dignified. His guide takes his cue to shuffle away, bowing his head gracefully in defeat as he apologizes. Nemesis follows suit soon after. Only Hedwig and Ximena stay seated, the younger witch waiting, the older one looking at her bare wrist.

“Now, when is your free period?”

The two plan a set time and day to meet together and discuss the competition. They break off together speaking about asking Slughorn for use of his classroom after hours. Tom blinks across the table at Ximena, “Are you alright?”

His concern makes her baffled, apparently, “What do you mean?”

“You felt a little rattled when I saw you come in.” _It’s very unusual for you to be hanging out with that sort._

“Oh, that.” Discomfort

Usually, he would press on despite her clear reluctance. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t find it smart. Right. He changes the subject, “I noticed your amusement at Acarya’s tongue lashing,”

“Mm...It was satisfying.”

“Have you wanted to say similar?”

“Many times.” No hesitation. A tired sigh, “Sometimes it is not worth it. People do not listen, they only wait until you are done talking.”

He thinks on that, for a small while.

“Sorry I haven’t been up and around much.”

Ximena holds up a hand, open palmed, “No need for apologies. I figured you were studying for your midterms. Your education is important you know.”

He nods once, “You’ve helped me out with my studies many times.”

Tom’s not sure what to do with her resulting look of surprise, “--Have I?”

“Oh yes, more than I can say.” Honest words, “Your advice, the places you lead me in the library, _the book you lent to me..._ ”

Her eyelashes flutter slightly, her fingers lift to her lips in thought. As if she were trying to dig through her memories for any evidence of what he was saying, “So I have...” She looks at him, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did you really forget all that?” _All the time we’ve spent around each other?_

She clears her throat, “No no, I...” A hum, her thoughts buffering, “I didn’t do those things to _help_ you...Not like that, I mean.” Her fingers tap tap lightly over her mouth, “I was just..sharing. Conversing. Like others talk about the weather. Or Quidditch.” 

Ah, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Could you...Tell me something?”

She looks at him but does not say anything. He continues, “Can anyone learn to...feel others’ magic?” 

“You mean you can’t already?”

That was a good hot stab to his side. It was entirely normal for someone his age to do that then. Either that, or Ximena expects everyone to be able to do something that only comes naturally to her. He’s not sure which one he is hoping for.

“Oh, sorry.” His emotions had shown clear on his face, then, “Well, it’s um, it’s just like getting the feel of a room. You have to just pay attention.”

Tom had once heard that explaining something that comes naturally to you, like breathing, is impossible to explain to someone who has no idea where to start, “What am I paying attention to?”

“Well, just the air around a person. Not with your eyes, but with your own magic.” Her lips form a thin line again, “It’s easier to sense others before your own...Almost like how you can never look into your own eyes, do you understand?” Vaguely. “Some people get good at hiding it, and you can control its range sometimes, if you’re particularly skilled. Give off killing intent and power levels, it’s nice for intimidation during duels.”

“Can you see mine?”

“Yes--In a manner of speaking.” She readjusts herself in her seat, “Physically manifesting your magic takes a lot of work and patience. Power doesn’t hurt either. _I_ can’t see your magic, but others can. It would be like seeing temperatures, or radio waves.”

“ _What’s it like?_ ” Tom tries hard to keep the thrill from boiling over, but it’s so hard.

Despite all she has said about _not_ being able to see it, Ximena squints at his form, “It feels...compact. Tight. Suppressed.” She stops squinting, “It’s hard to tell without using my magic to prod.”

“Why don’t you?”

Something like a blush dusts across her face, “That’s...It’s very personal to do. Intimate. I wouldn’t do that to you without your permission or a warning. It’s something you do...In a battle. To scare and torment. Or to family, to comfort and protect.”

“We’re friends, though, right? Can you show me? I give you permission.” That hopeful note in his voice is the cherry on the cake. She looks compromised. Hesitant. He only has a few seconds after her reluctant nod before he... _perceives_ that she is even doing anything.

Softly, something brushes up against what he would call his personal space. It does not touch his skin or clothes, but it _touches him._ As if his feet were sharing a pool with someone--something--and they moved. It tickles. He holds back any temptation he has to giggle.

The thing presses deeper. It doesn’t feel like a ripple anymore, it feels like a gossamer caress. A fluffy cat cuddling against his essence, or a snake slipping over his soul. It’s cool, like a stone by a river. It pushes and pulls gently against... _something._ Was this his magic guarding him? What would happen if he parted it and let the mysterious thing through…?

Tom slips into his magic like a wet glove. It stretches out, uncertain of what is happening, and snaps back skin tight, fitting perfectly. A reverse shedding of skin. For a moment, the imagery of crawling into a cocoon comes into his head. The comparison comforts him.

“There...That’s it...Can you feel it?”

Her voice surprises him. It almost feels like he is deep underground with how distant the sound is to him. But as his magic conforms to him, it becomes clearer: the thing that had been pushing up against him. Water.

“ _I feel it._ ”

He wishes he hadn’t said it. Her magic retreats back to her at once, and he is left with just his own awareness of his own magic, dancing pleasantly about him.

“It’s _black._ ” 

“Black?” He didn’t know magic had colors.

“Endless...A night sky.” Ximena bears a look that Tom knows means she is thinking a million thoughts a second, “It’s very grounded. Rooted. Strong.” He likes that. “Your magic is very elegant. You have a lot of potential.”

Most nothing is greater than the want to feel her own magic, but he doesn’t ask. He knows what her answer would be.

-

Dumbledore, back when he first visited him at Wool’s, had made a small jest over his skill of getting himself into situations where he has no one to blame but himself. Well, he didn’t word it like _that_ , but Tom knows what ‘troublemaker’ means coming from the mouth of an adult.

The point is: he’s in a place that he only is responsible for.

It was his mentor’s idea, _he swears_. Something about socializing more (more than he even does now?) and ‘Having a bit of fun, Riddle, you’re such a squeaky clean student’. Normally, Tom would never ( _never_ ) allow himself to be bullied or pushed into such a thing but...It’s not like he’s having to participate in Mischief Night, right? Nevermind that that was something he actually _was_ more curious about--What irked him was having to do something (anything) on the terms of others. But these are the cards he has been dealt, and he will play them perfectly.

A part of him feels a bit silly at dressing up, but another part (a much louder, stronger part) feels excited. It’s his first proper Hallowe’en, and he wants to do it right. He wants to look good and play and talk with his fellow wizards and witches. Be a part of their world. Hallowe’en at Wool’s was always uneventful: a few of the older children would sneak out and return with goodies for the younger ones, but Tom was usually left out from those raids (oh, he took all the sweets and pastries he wanted later, mind you.) The most dressing up _anyone_ did was with old pillowcases and donated clothing. Children were ghosts, nuns, and all other sorts of unimaginative people. Unpleasant.

Tom’s costume is a dream: A tunic entirely sewed from starflowers and skeleton  leaves, of which he had help in creating thanks to a few charmed older girls--His usually neat and combed aside hair is styled wild with a few sprigs of leaves pinned. He is the absolute portrait of boyishness.

Needless to say, few of his pureblooded companions understand his disguise. _Uncultured swines._ Hedwig guessed something along the lines of a wood sprite. His mentor thought he was some _Shakespearean_ character, which was considerably closer, but not on the nose. _Muggles_ , as ugly and stupid as they are, still have some value...If only in their works.

 _“Something’s missing,”_ He mutters to himself on the way to the party, rubbing a strand of his short hair between his fingers.

“What, did you have a hat or something too?” Hedwig, dressed as the Goddess Morrigan, turns to look at him impatiently.

Tom shakes his head, “It’s my hair. I wish I could make it longer. More red.”

“Is that all?” She pulls her wand out and points it at his head, “Mum’s the word.”

“Can you really?” It shouldn’t have surprised him at this point, really, that wizards could do such a thing, but it does.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She smirks at the excitement in his voice, “Colovaria.”

A tingling all over his scalp. On the edges of his vision, he sees brown burn into a bright auburn. He can’t stop his grin, especially when Hedwig continues with a lengthening charm.

“Not too bad for a first year, eh?” Humility really doesn’t suit her, “Simple cosmetic charms--You learn those in sixth year. Don’t tell anyone I know how to do them, they’ll lose their fucking heads over nothing.” She tucks her wand away, “That should last a few hours, hopefully, if I did it right.”

Trickling students trail along the way to the lesser hall dressed in all manner of strange and fantastic dress. Fabric, accessories, and hair twinkles and shines and seems to move with a life of its own. He tries not to stare, he wants to act as if he’s seen such wonders all his life. He wants to play pureblood. Or at least half-blood. He wishes he had not let the status of his parentage out so quickly or at all. But he has time. He always has time.

The hall is lovely. Dark and gloomy in a way that only Hallowe’en could make fun. There appears to be various parts of the hall sectioned off with hanged veils and curtains that shimmer and obscure the people and objects beyond. All that can be seen behind them are the flickering flames of the floating, migrating candles that make their way through the hall. They glow effervescently, their radiance visible despite obstacles and distance.

He spots Ximena alongside his mentor, and another girl, looking out of place.

“Good God, woman, what are you supposed to bloody be? Did you even dress up?” Hedwig’s astonishment feels misplaced to Tom: the older girl is wearing a modest, sensible, black long sleeve dress with an attached capelet. It reminds Tom of the photograph hung in the Matron’s office back at Wool’s.

Ximena blinks, “I’m in mourning.”

His mentor laughs, “You never change, Lane.” Two years is a little too short a time to know a person before saying that, but maybe Tom should wait two years before passing judgement, “Didn’t think I’d see you here, you were looking sick towards the end of your last period.”

A small shrug, resigned and tired, “I had something like an obligation.”

The muggleborn girl--the one Tom saw previously, so long ago--raises her hand, admitting guilt, “I made her come! She’s my secret weapon.” The girl is dressed as Frankenstein’s bride, quite convincingly too. He wonders if her costume will be misunderstood as well.

“Secret weapon?” His mentor is amused, he speaks condescendingly, “What, are you going to use her to spill punch on Rosier’s dress?”

The girl, while somewhat aware of his mentor’s opinion of her, Tom’s sure, smiles right back, “It’s a secret for a reason.”

Their conversation continues, with Hedwig chiming in, and Tom turns to Ximena, complimenting her appearance, “You look nice.”

“Thanks. You do too.”

“Can you guess who I am?”

“You’re Peter Pan.[1]” Ximena comments as he swells with satisfaction. _Of course_ she would get it. She would understand. He thanks her wholeheartedly, confirming her guess, and asks another question, “Was she really your obligation?”

A pause before she processes what he said, her eyes flicker to her companion briefly, “..No.”

“Riddle! I thought that was you.” Tom turns and finds Nemesis smiling under a golden tiara of stars, “Come with me, I have some friends that want to meet you--”

Nemesis, as thin and frail as she seems, has the grip of a heavyweight champion. He turns his head to properly _excuse_ himself to Ximena, but when he looks, she is already gone. Dissolved into the crowd like mist.

Though he likes that there are people vying for his attention, he doesn’t like the clear control they have over him. Being able to push and pull him away from things and people. He supposes he’ll have to have a talk with his classmate about that, _‘Next time, just ask, please.’_ A flash of pleading eyes and a comforting smile, and he knows Nemesis will concede and apologise--She’s a bit of a pushover sometimes.

Tom expects the people she wants to introduce to him are the same. Birds of a feather. She had told him _friends_ , but he suspects that was shorthand for ‘people my parents want me to build relationships with’, considering the blatant differences in generation. They all look like pillars of staggering height and ages, but all made of the same expensive material. Old money. Old blood. Alongside them, he is rudely introduced to highblooded society and customs: eating with the right fork, sneezing correctly, and insulting someone the way it should be done: behind their backs. It’s not anymore tiring or annoying as his usual catering to egos, but _God_ , it’s ugly. He doesn’t even wholly enjoy the company of his classmate, who is so boring at a damn party that she could rival a brick wall. All she keeps talking about is whose cousin is whose wife or brother or grandparent. She keeps talking about her honorable uncle, the Minister for Magic, whose name causes discomfort on other’s faces when brought up. She keeps talking about _her father_ this and _her mother_ that, and all her older siblings and their spouses. 

Fortunately, the bore does not last long. Or longer than it should. Once people see him around other pureblooded students and staff, they acknowledge him. Look him in the eyes. Size him up. He smiles, charms, and slides into people’s consciousness. _What an adorable young lad. So sharp! So witty._ It fills him with a pleasant buzz. And with every added word of praise and adoration, it grows increasingly stronger.

He’s having _fun._ People smile at him and compliment his costume (though they don’t know what he is), share their food with him, and talk about what a great asset he is to Slytherin House--To Hogwarts. At one moment, Slughorn finds his way to him and recounts a story that happened in the classroom just a few weeks ago to other teachers. Tom sees the admiration and impressed looks, and he basks in it. Colors and sounds swirl by him in a flurry, it feels as if he’s caught in a blizzard of cheer and mischief. Students and teachers begin to dance to whatever haunting tune is being played and echoed throughout the chamber.  His head feels heavy and his feet light, drunk without a single drop of wine fallen on his tongue. Drunk on the smiles and candy and socialites. Why did he ever feel like he wanted to skip this event? Was it pompous? Was it pure buffoonery? Was it a waste of time? Absolutely. Oh, but he _loves_ it.

Excusing himself from Druella, her cousin, and Nemesis, he stumbles through boisterous laughter and shifting bodies to find the drink table--Or a spare house elf holding more of that fizzy, fruity _pop soda_ that made his mouth tingle and dance with flavor. Rather than that, he finds something else entirely:

A secluded, dimly lit corner of the room veiled by gold, filigree, semi-opaque curtains. As he passes them, he feels the sheet, the mask of drunkenness lift from his eyes. A few students lean on the marble columns whilst standing, others sit criss cross on the tile or on sparse floor pillows.  Ximena herself, sits tall and elegant on a cushy, velvet bench, hands in her lap. He sees her mouth move, but he cannot hear anything until he gets _just_ close enough. Just beyond the last thin curtain.

There’s something different happening. Different because there is a moderately sized group of students-- _strangers_ \-- surrounding the girl giving their full attention, and Ximena appears in a trance. At ease. Rather than scatter and scramble as she did only a few days ago, his senior takes the attention professionally. As a public figure would. There is no sweat on her brow or seizuring in her fingers or nervous eyes moving back and forth for an escape. There is only stillness.

“...there was a terrible flooding that spring, mudslides destroyed so many homes around us. It was too dangerous for me to go to the well.” As she presses her lips together before continuing, Tom settles in close but out of sight, “So I went to the river.”

Briefly, his gaze flickers to the faces of the other students. They hang eagerly to her every word. He looks back.

“It was swollen. Grown about five or seven meters in width.” Though her voice remains even, suspense builds with every passing second, “I thought it would be violent. Torrenting and strong and fast, but it wasn’t. It was calm and almost still. Like it was sleeping.” 

Her eyes are the same way they were the morning they spent out in the grounds. Distant and nostalgic. Yearning.

“The edges of the river were too shallow for me to collect water. There was dirt and drowned insects, it wasn’t _clean._ ” Another press of her lips, “So I stepped in further.”

“I hiked up my clothes so they wouldn’t get wet, but it felt futile. The moment my feet submerged in that river, my whole body--my soul--was soaked.” Her hand, the missing bracelet hand, presses flat against her chest, “The river was cold and miserable. It was heavy. The more I waded, the stronger the current became. It was like it didn’t want me there.”

Tom wants to check on the faces of the others, but he can’t take his eyes off Ximena’s form.

“And then I heard it: distant at first, mistakable for the wind.” A minute shudder runs through her neck and shoulders, “Softly half-crying, softly half-singing. It was the most defeated, pitiful, tragic sound I ever heard.”

 _What was she saying?_ He wants to ask. But of course, much as of late, he does not voice anything. He merely sits and waits in silence for the story to continue.

“But it was beautiful. A beautiful song-wail. Comforting and haunting all at once. I wanted to find it. To capture it somehow. Keep it bottled and near me for always.” A blink and the subtlest of frowns, “It was a woman calling for her children.”

Gooseskin rises up on Tom’s arms and neck.

“When I saw her, she was waist deep in the river, wearing the most colorful, gorgeous clothing I’ve ever seen.” Her eyes shut briefly, as if she were picturing it in her mind’s eye, “Embroidered flowers, leaves, birds and people dancing on her blue frock. A green shawl covered her head, she looked like a saint. So warm. So sad. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch her. I wanted to tell her it was okay. _I was here. Her child is here. I’m here. I’m here and_ _I love you. I love you._ ” Her eyes open again. Looking out, past and through the students in front of her. Out in the distant beyond. Everyone listening to her story is leaning in ever so slightly, mouth parted.

“And then I drowned.”

Tom releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding hostage. The students around him seem to do the same.

Ximena waits. Suspense is everything, “When I woke up, I was thrashing in the arms of one of the sisters, coughing up water and soaked to the bone on the edge of the river.” Her shoulders relax, “I was nine.”

In the quietness that follows the end of her story, he tries his best to process the information as quickly and efficiently as possible. It wasn’t just a story, it wasn’t _just_ a story that you claimed happened to you or someone you knew, _that was real. She rode with the Grey Lady. Was atop the Pale Horse. Was under daisies. She died. Death took her and she came back._

His thoughts are interrupted by a high whistling of his mentor, “Merlin, Lane, you told it better this year.” His classmates around them blink out of their daze and gather their wits.

“Make it a Hallowe’en tradition, yeah?” _Prewett_ pips up, smiling bright.

Tom does not stay to comment or congratulate. He books it straight to the library. 

The few Prefects poor enough (or boring enough) to be assigned to watch duty are just bitter and tired enough for Tom to sneak past them with little difficulty. The library is dead silent and empty, save for the fluttering of a few books flying overhead to a different perch.

His feet take him to the _Myth and Legend_ section in the upper floors, and his hands reach out, as if on instinct, to grab a royal blue book,  Magical Diffusion in The New World. He doesn’t want to wait to go back to the common room, he wants to open up the book _now_ and study in the library furiously until he finds it, but he waits. Waits until he climbs all the stairs down into the dungeons, until his hair returns to its earthy brown and his costume trails skeleton leaves behind him. Tom sits up in his bed and reads. Reads wildly as his classmates enter the dormitory and fall to sleep, one by one. Reads as the clock strikes midnight and dark figures swim past his windows. He studies righteously until he finds just what he is looking for. And when he finds what he is looking for, he gets a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Gooseskin. A satisfied night’s sleep.

When he talks to her again, it is November the second, and he has regained his footing. He finds her sitting quietly at a desk in a small nook in the deserted common room (as the first snowfall of the season had called everyone outside to fool around). A pair of enchanted scissors cut rapidly at some colorful paper whilst she reads through what Tom identifies as a cookbook. Curious choice in his opinion, but he’s not here to get distracted.

Pulling up a chair to the right side of the desk, he asks her permission to join her. When she gives it, he sits down comfortably, eyeing the movement of the silver scissors.

“Crafting?”

“Something like that.” She turns the page in her book to a colorful moving illustration of a dancing bag of sugar.

“How do you get the scissors to do that?” His voice sounds almost transfixed.

Ximena’s eyes finally come off the book to look at what her magic has created, “A simple charm.”

“I don’t think that’s very simple.” The cutouts and nips on the paper are precise, despite the speed. So far, it looks as if it’s going to be a snowflake of some sort.

Ximena exhales strongly and sharply. It’s the closest thing he’s heard to a laugh from her, “Well, it’s simple to me.”

“We can’t all be as powerful and skilled as you are.”

The words are meant as flattery. And teasing. A test of their relationship. He feels a bit deflated when she doesn’t react much to it.

“Power is nothing when you have no smarts.”

He’s not sure what she means, so he goes on, “You sound like a Ravenclaw.”

“Oh, not _that_ again.”

“--Not what again?”

“That kind of talk, that I don’t belong in Slytherin house.” She sighs, “Houses are stupid. They only divide us.”

He can’t say he disagrees. It’s much harder influencing those outside his house when they don’t share a class period with him, “...When _he_ said that fame was fickle and changing, just like last year, what did he mean?”

Just as he thought, she _did_ remember those words. Something told him she would. Despite her inability to recall names or memories, he knew that she would remember this. It was a phrase connecting them, like _‘Remember the boat show last year?’_ or _‘This is just like when auntie forgot to cook the goose!’._ It established a bond between them. A memory. 

“I was a hatstall.”

The word, the _name,_ bears meaning. Strong meaning. He can tell. Heavy and solid like a weight. He has no idea what a hatstall is, of course.

“I took more than five minutes to sort.” She continues, looking at him.

“--Oh.” The words _Is that uncommon_ is about to come out of his mouth, but thankfully they never do. He would look like an idiot if they had. He remembers his own sorting. How quick the hat had rightfully placed him among his own, as fast as firing a pistol. How the longest sorting had been only thirty seconds, outside of one classmate: Nemesis. Five minutes exactly.

“How long? Which houses?” He’s dying of curiosity. His hands grasp the edge of the table, leaning in closer.

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember.” _Of fucking course._ “I sort of...dipped out of my consciousness. Disassociated with the moment.” He can understand that. Having all those eyes on you was unnerving when he underwent it, he can only imagine how she took it.  Standing alone on a stage with hundreds of eyes watching and waiting. Calculating. Sneering at your unfamiliar, non-magical name.

“What I do remember is the end, when the Sorting Hat said Slytherin.” And then she huffs up her voice in imitation, “ _Stubborn child! Slytherin!_ ” Her shoulders slump back, her eyes still revisiting the memory, “When I came to, people were quiet. They didn’t clap. No one told me how long I was up there. I didn’t even know I was a hatstall until three months in.”

“Who told you?”

“ _The buffoon._ ” She shares with him, smiling at the private joke. It’s an unfamiliar sight on her face, but not unpleasant. Her teeth, he notes, are perfect, “He’s the one who really showed me the ropes regarding wizard customs. Made it easier to keep my head down.”

And he tilts his head at this, “Why do you hide?” It comes out softly and full of curiosity. 

“Attention brings problems, more often than not.”

“Like with the duel?”

Hesitation. “Yes. Like with the duel.” By now, her attention on the book was long lost, her spot on the page marked only with the red bookmark she had been using to keep her place.

“But everyone was so nice to you!”

Ximena presses her lips together, “Nice is not always kind.”

She ended the conversation with that. Her stop to it was practically tangible. He opts for changing the subject, “Any plans for Christmas?”

A small little sigh and an even smaller shrug, “Just being at home.”

_“Like last year?”_

A hum, “Perhaps. Might be nice to stay, but they might miss me.”

“Might?”

“Might.”

Tom didn’t know you could stay at Hogwarts for the holidays--He’d have to ask Dippet about that, because Dumbledore neglected to tell him.

“Would you like to write to each other? Like pen-friends?”

Ximena looks to be taking careful consideration of his request, fingers laced together atop the table as if she were deciding something leagues more important. Like the colors for new curtains in the parlor, or whether or not to cut her hair, or which one of her children she liked better.

“I would like that.” She decides.

His chest swells with satisfaction.

Things were once again, as his mentor would say, back to normal. 

-

Over the _Yuletide_ holidays, Tom finds himself blessed enough to be allowed to stay at Hogwarts after a timid inquiry at Headmaster Dippet. And _of course_ he would be allowed to stay over the vacation, Hogwarts would be happy to have him.

The castle is peaceful and lonely. A perfect backdrop to his current state.  The halls are mostly empty and silent as an old movie. Only the wind groaning through the walkways and his own footsteps keep him company. Every once in a while, he’ll spot another student out of his periphery, but they all keep to themselves. Some will congregate in small groups with each other, but Tom hasn’t approached any yet. None of them are in Slytherin anyways. He’s fine by himself, as he always has been. In fact, he openly revels in the solitude (not that there’s anyone to see it): his gait mimics that of a king as he struts around the deserted Slytherin common room, pretending to own the place. The chaise and chairs in the lounge? All his, it’s where he does his important thinking. The beds in the first year dormitory? All his, he switches between them as he pleases. The small library and fireplace? All his, because there is much to learn and show for his success. It’s such a delight. The only thing that would make it better is if there were others there to play with him. Be his servants and confidants and fellow noblemen. 

The grounds, blanketed with blinding snow that crunches delightfully under his shoes when he walks on it, resemble a Christmas postcard. Tom wishes he could paint it on a piece of bristol paper and send it back to Wool’s, showing off how much better he is here. Away from them. Back at the orphanage, they will be setting up for Christmas Eve by now: putting up moth-eaten stockings, attending services at the chapel, and decorating the saddest, ugliest tree in London. Last year, it had caught fire from the candles hung on it thanks to a mischievous stray cat that had somehow wandered in (It was Tom. He had let it in because the matron is allergic, and she had been foul to him earlier. No regrets.) They should have known better, really, it wasn’t freshly cut. It had been donated, if his memory serves him, by some rich patron who had wanted a nice photo opportunity for Sunday’s post. They came along sometimes, but not often enough to be remembered. He prefers the donations from church members who felt they were making a sort of _difference_ in his life, but even they eventually move on to better ventures.

Then there are the past residents.

The older orphans, now adults, who had nothing but warmth and gratitude towards Wool’s for housing and feeding and _loving_ them when the world wouldn’t. They are a sight often seen in and out of the place all throughout the year, frustratingly enough. They offer toys and clothes and food. They offer apprenticeships and jobleads. They offer a way out. But most annoying of all, _they come back for their siblings._ Time after time, Tom has seen the children that grew out of being an orphan return for a brother, or sister, or more. _Come! I have found our family! Come! I have arranged for you to marry my employer’s son! Come! I have made my fortune!_ Why would they want to return to such a place? Why would they come back for their sibling? The moment Tom comes of age, he is going forward and never looking back. 

Going where? He’ll sort out that detail later. The world of magic has opened a hall of doors for him. Each possible future more tantalizing than the last. Just a matter of working for the keys. Or taking them from others. He’s not picky. He’ll work as a damn shopkeeper, for God’s sake, as long as he can _stay_ here. Where he belongs.

Again, he tries not to think about the end of the year. When he has to return to _home._

Tom shakes his head. No. It’s absurd to ever think that Wool’s was his home. It is a dwelling. A temporary shelter. A space that only exists when he has need of it. Just need. Not want. Not ever want. Hogwarts is his home now. For now. He will find-- _build_ a better one. Surely. A citadel far more safe and grand than Hogwarts. Luxurious and comfortable.

...Maybe he could ask Dippet if he could stay over the summer as well.

Admittedly, he is a bit miffed and confused that Ximena did not stay over the holidays as well. He had been under the impression (under the hope) that she held as much repugnancy for her abode and the people around her there like he holds for Wool’s. Was he wrong? Maybe she has some sort of obligation there--Or she’s hiding something (another something), like visiting the Acwellans again. The thought makes him sour. Should he ask her about it? Then she would know he was prying--Or can he play it off as just casual conversation between him and Hedwig? No. He’ll simply ask if she...went on any special trips. Yes.

The first letter to Ximena is rewritten three times. The first, because he felt he was rambling on about boring subjects. The second, because he had spilled ink when Ambrose speed walked over his hand in an attempt to catch a wandering beetle (he put him back in his tank with a good scolding. One that would make the matron at Wool’s proud.)

The third time around, he decides to be short. To the point. Let her decide the topics--But don’t let her be the one to initiate conversation. Knowing her, becoming pen-friends has probably already slipped her mind. Not at all because he is unimportant to her, surely, but because...Well, she’s _Ximena._

Atop the west tower, Tom clutches the letter deep in his pocket, shielding it from the bizarre winds of the afternoon. Prying open the cold wooden door (it frequently got stuck thanks to caked owl droppings that dried on the floor before it), he peers in carefully. Never having been inside the owlery before, he doesn’t know what to expect--But the strange boxed displays of owl perches were not exactly...Well, where did they nest? It can’t be very comfortable…

But no matter. Tom steps forward, and absolutely does not flinch at the sudden flapping of wings above and around him, towards the few owls set aside by the school for student use. Hedwig had mentioned to him that the best bird for the job was a barn owl named Hattie because “sodding owl delivered my mother’s baked goods through the worst damn blizzard of the fucking century, she’s no cock-up, my sister _swears_ by her”, and well, with an argument like that, how can he choose otherwise? It wasn’t as if he knew enough about sending mail by owl to see the marks of a good flyer. Maybe there was a class on that in his Care of Magical Creatures class?

Almost ( _almost_ ) timidly, he calls out the name of the owl and is rewarded with a plump looking owl fluttering up in his face--Pulling away in surprise, he sticks the letter out automatically, not quite knowing what to do. He had seen others tie their parcels onto the birds’ feet, and other times, they would simply hand them over for the owl to carry in their beaks. Luckily for him, Hattie appears to be an experienced owl and simply nips the letter in her beak delicately, does a little body shake in preparation, and waits for Tom to tell her where to go.

He clears his throat, feeling awkward despite being alone in at the top of the tower, “Bring it to...Ximena Lane.” A name alone _should_ work (damn girl was still religiously private, so an address was out the window) but Tom adds on at the last minute before Hattie could disappear from view, hoping it would help, that it wasn’t too late, “ _My friend,_ Ximena Lane.”

The wind shifts violently, almost throwing Hattie right out of the sky. Instead of being knocked down, however, she recovers, and is soon nothing but a distant speck in the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I based his costume choice on the brilliant fic ‘Finding Neverland’ by IMBailey on Quotev! It’s a very nice, surprisingly wholesome bb Tom Riddle fic, and I can’t recommend it enough.
> 
> I don’t usually give explanations to things I write unless they’re confusing/culturally bound/i want to give credit, but the nursery rhyme I used today has some altered lyrics/verses courtesy of me. I tweaked some existing versions and mushed variations together to fit the story/chapter.
> 
> Uh, sorry for the delay for this chapter! I decided to combine and compress chapters six and seven together, which caused a longer wait time, but a longer chapter! Without all the fat :D Hope it was satisfactory :0
> 
> I, uh, made a playlist for this fic :D I’m still working on it, but if you’d like to check it out, it’s on Spotify under ‘Serpentine - Part 1’. All classical, of course. Give it a listen while reading!
> 
> A a funny side note: Lion keeps telling me ‘Does Hedwig know that she’s black?’, and it’s making me laugh/cry. 
> 
> I also launched a Patreon! Which is relevant because alongside artworks, I’ll be posting previews and never-before-seen writings of mine to patrons! Check it out under /monikaelma :D Only $1 a month to be let in on the fun and goodies.


	7. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something changes.

Hattie returns, not worse for wear, from the south. Her feathers are damp from remote rains, and she croons into his hands as he scratches the sides of her face. The letter is a stiff piece of paper folded and tied closed with a piece of twine. He opens it immediately without waiting to walk to a more comfortable space (he was in the middle of the main courtyard), and reads through Ximena’s neat handwriting. The contents are surprisingly ordinary: a mention of the weather, scattered answers to his questions (‘I’m well’’, ‘hot oatmeal with cinnamon’, ‘no’, and ‘I think I’ll stay home this winter.’), and an off-hand comment on the current book she was reading though (another surprisingly ordinary sounding book, though she did not give the title.) It felt as carefully composed as his own letter. Overall, a disappointment.

It is set aside later, on a table back in the Slytherin common room, in favor of the more informative letters of his elite schoolmates. Topaz Selwyn and Abbas Yaxley are the most interesting of the bunch, avoiding topics like sports teams and girls, and sticking to wizarding traditions during Yule--As he found out from their confused writings, most purebloods had never heard of Christ or Father Christmas. A shock, to be sure, but it’s easy to adapt. The boys even speak about one day inviting him to their families’ _Wild Hunt_ recreation. God only knows what in the goddamn _that_ is, but Tom is excited to find out.

Hedwig sends a small postcard from the Rhineland speaking of a Wild Hunt as well ( _Da says I’m still far too young, but I’m going to sneak on a fucking horse anyways and go out with the rest_ ), and asking him if muggles have hunts around Yuletide as well. There is no mention of Ximena being re-invited to her family’s home.

Next, inside a carefully wrapped package is a tin of cookies, each more peculiar and delicious than the last. It is from Nemesis, who sends her deepest and warmest regards along with a little toy knight charmed to march about and listen to his orders. _‘An early Modranicht present’_ whatever that means. He sets the little knight up before him to feast his eyes on it: the metal used in his armor as intricate and detailed as a real one. He wonders how much it cost. He wonders if it made any real dent in her money budget for the holidays.

He orders it to jump off the table. It does so immediately, and clamors down on the stone floor with a moderate clang. Splayed out like a dead man. It picks itself up easily, though, and stands again, ready for the next order. Tom decides he likes it.

Sending his new little soldier around the common room to search for treasure, he decides to put off writing back to Ximena until later, he focuses on writing back to the more interesting classmates-- _the more important classmates._ But his mind wanders, skips and saunters back to his senior...Had she really changed that much in such short a time? Gotten more and more boring? In her reading choices and personality and--

Tom gazes down at the bracelet, set before him beside his goblet of juice. Was it this that had interested him so much all those weeks ago when he accessed her during his first night? This mysterious thing with such a basic origin? Yami had said that Ximena’s own magic had changed, and such a thing in such a short amount of time is...It’s not possible is it? On one’s own? It’s not like changing one’s clothes or cutting one’s hair, surely it’s like developing height or weight over a length of time...

Something moves in the common room and he turns to search for the intruder so fast, he gets whiplash. His eyes search desperately for any sign of life--Or death, it could very well be Peeves attempting to scare him (again). But all he sees is blackness--Damn place was so dimly lit. Tom can hear his heart beating in his ears, it’s so silent. And then…

_Caw._

He is met with a crow.

It hops over to him, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, with a small envelope attached to its little foot.

Tom is cautious, “How did you get in here?”

It says nothing, of course. It merely looks at him and crows again. He extends his hand out--And is nipped at. His hand retracts back, bleeding slightly. Cursing, he is tempted to swat away the stupid bird, but he stops himself.

The tin of cookies is given a second glance.

This time, Tom offers it up first: a shiny little refractive biscuit that feels like someone broke off a piece of the moon. The little messenger accepts it happily, and willfully lets Tom untie the envelope from it. There is no signature at the bottom of the letter inside, but he knows who it’s from.

_I don’t trust the owls from Hogwarts. Please write to me using my friend._

The crow makes another sound at him, as if confirming that it was, indeed, the friend written about.

_It’s not serious. I am not in any danger. I am not in hiding. But my letters are all read by the Abbess. I can’t disguise my words, it would be very difficult for you to decipher them._

He’s offended. He’s a very smart boy of eleven, thank you very much, he could have figured it out. Even if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind that her first letter could possibly be encoded. He would have definitely figured it out if it was. Eventually. Yes.

_She already suspects something strange about this school. It took forever for another sister to convince her that owls are an alternative for messenger pigeons. Thank goodness she never leaves the abbey._

He leans back in the comfortable armchair, drinking in her words greedily. The crow has taken to helping itself on the tin of sweet biscuits. Tom does not mind or notice.

_I’ve never written to a person before, so maybe she was just suspicious. It is very uncharacteristic of me to be so sociable. I don’t even know what to write. You didn’t give much in the way of prompting. That is very unlike you._

What was that supposed to mean? Nevermind.

_What do you really want to say? To ask?_

A lot. It would take a few pages.

_What are you afraid of?_

What indeed.

_Tell me._

So he did.

Throughout all of his letters to Ximena that winter, he writes with complete honesty. The abridged...censored...and highly edited version of honesty, anyways. If she can have secrets, why can’t he?

He repeats a few of his observations from the book he studied about curses to her, and asks what she thinks of them in the first letters. He’ll deny anyone who accuses him of fishing for compliments on his intelligence, but validation feels good. And he would like to see if he’s on a good track with some of his theories and views.

It’s amazing, just when Ximena was getting boring to him, something happens that manages to make him keep his attention on her. Is she aware of it? Is she rationing out parts of her just enough so that he stays around? No, he’s not so hopeful or stupid as to believe that, but it is a nice thought, nonetheless. ‘ _Friendship takes time.’_ The words repeat themselves in his mind. _Friendship takes time._

The letters take time too. His questions take time.

_‘What were you reading that first day we met in the library?’_

Even now, he can picture the page in his mind’s eye, though the image is blurred. What did she say it was? Sonnets? Whatever it was, it had to have been a lie. Or a truth so vague and broad that it might as well have been a lie. She’ll tell him now, right? She has to, things are different with them now. He has won her friendship over many weeks of pushing for it.

He wants to write--to ask if she trusts that idiot of a mentor more than she trusts him. So many little intimacies about her he only knew from that buffoon. And _he_ only knew those directly from the source. She had told him, once, that his guide was _useful._ Was she as manipulative as he, then? Back when he had started attending Dueling Club as much as he could, he had hoped to catch something between them. A passing glance or a few dropped sentences, but he never got much beyond a few little quips and comments. And Ximena has yet to duel again, so he couldn’t even look forward to that.

_‘Why are you in Dueling Club when you don’t like dueling?’_

Yes! That was a good thing to write, he knows it. It’s bold. Just. Rational. He knows that any person with context would be impressed with him upon reading it. Okay okay, he stops lingering on the sentence to focus on what to write next, but he can’t. Instead, he stays on that one sentence because goddamn, _why doesn’t she like dueling?_ Tom can’t wait until he’s able to be up there himself showing everyone what he’s made of. What he’s capable of. Tom can’t wait to further prove himself to those outside the classroom. To not have to rely on the stories and recounts of teachers and students. He wants his time _now._

_‘Did Dumbledore find you like he found me?’_

A question that holds a little more ernest sincerity. And perhaps, he hate hate _hates_ to admit, a little more vulnerability. He already knows the answer, of course, Dumbledore told him himself, but he wants to hear her version. In her own words. Was he nicer to her? Did he also demand she stop any illicit activities like theft?

It’s strange. In a way he wants to collect her. Not keep her in a glass display case like at a museum, but collect her essence. Her thoughts and memories. Her magic. Bits of her to leaf through and study and admire. Not like a butterfly pinned down or a pretty penny polished and shined, but like an idea. Or a tune to a song. Immortalized.

He wants to see what parts of her match him.

His name, he knows, and thinks with great disgust, is common. His mind, though, is not. Not his personality or goals. Her name is not common. At least, not in the United Kingdom. Her history and personality and goals are still unknown. Being in Slytherin is one thing: a _lot_ of people can be ambitious and resourceful and cunning and driven. A lot of people can be group oriented and self-serving. A lot of people follow their own set of rules and personal laws to a tee. But how many people can actually use that ambition properly? Be resourceful towards practical things? Not be caught deceiving while being cunning? Or be driven towards the _correct_ things?

It bothers him that he can’t even vaguely place Ximena in a certain category of people, like he has with the rest of his classmates. She’s no fit in ‘Easy to Manipulate’. No fit in ‘Rich and Powerful’. No fit in ‘Perfect Scapegoat’, ‘Networking Ally’, or ‘Useless’. Very few people have yet to be sorted in this manner, and for them it is only a matter of time. For Ximena, he has placed her in a special box of her own. One labeled with ‘Like Me, But Not Like Me’.

Like Me, But Not Like Me.

Maybe it upsets him that there can even be someone out there on his level? Or near it? On a parallel plane from it? Maybe it scares him that this someone was so easily found within months of learning that it was magic that he can do? That this other person raised so similarly to him was already leagues ahead of him, despite only being a year older? How far will he be in his second year? The same? Further? Further behind?

Competition keeps one sharp. He knows. Yet he doesn’t want to compete with Ximena. Not publically, at least. He knows which way the professors will favor if it ever came to that. His gender and race are enough to guarantee a smooth enough ride to the top, but with her, she has already managed to gain a considerable amount up without such things. Without trying. Or seeming to try. It’s hard to tell with her.

None of this, of course, is placed in any of the letters he writes back to her. It is kept in his head to stew over in the dark hours of the night before sleep takes him. Kept on the backburner of his mind while he reads through her short responses to his questions. Each barely satisfying enough to quell the curiosity, but just enough to properly answer the question. ‘I’m not sure exactly what I was reading, I’m translating it’, ‘I don’t want people to know how I fight’, and ‘Yes, he came here on a rainy Sunday afternoon and told me I was a witch’. There are more details after those sentences, but they are too much useless information for him to bother with.

“Do you know what she’s hiding?” He asks the crow one day, his feathers shiny and black as the night sky, “Can she talk to you like I talk to snakes?”

The bird judges him with beady jet eyes and does not respond, but he lets Tom scratch it on the top of its head.

Quite possibly, he is making an entire ordeal out of nothing. In reality she is as boring as they come, and as common as the next student. But there’s something in his gut. His core that says otherwise. The same thing that goes off when he knows that an adult means him harm. The same thing that alerts him to Prefects when he is up past his bedtime in the library. The same thing that told him to make those two children in the cave pay. It says to keep talking to her.

Reading through her writings is almost alike to speaking to her face to face, save for the lack of sudden pauses and her forgetting that he’s there. They’re short, but not as short as her sentences when she speaks aloud. It is as if Ximena is amplified on paper. Without barriers or filters to mess up his reading of her speech.

And there is something else...

It is an insignificant detail. Something absolutely no one would have noticed but him, of course. It is the rare, off-handed mentions of her food. Straightforward, boring meals--Porridge, salad, gelatin. Crisps and chips and carrot sticks. Nothing as grand or as interesting sounding as the meals he witnessed her eat in his time here. Of course it’s easily excusable with the fact that perhaps the nunnery doesn’t have the means to make such meals. Of course, Tom _knows_ it can’t be that easy.

He receives a clue in the form of a letter from Abbas, whom was speaking on an entirely different topic, _“My brother always eats his favourite meals at Hogwarts, and I can’t figure out how he did it! All he tells me is that you have to teach new foods to the cooks, but nobody cooks the food! It just appears!”_ Idiot. That’s what you get for slacking on your Transfiguration homework.

Speaking of, Dumbledore has backed off his little tirade. Hopefully he’ll stay that way. A few days after his last tea meeting was held, Ximena was becoming more openly social with her fellow students, alleviating Dumbledore’s apparent worry, and irritating Tom. If she doesn’t have time to pay attention to him, she shouldn’t have time to pay attention to anyone. She’s a reclusive, studious, ambitious girl, it’s what he likes about her. Now, she’s never given any indication of any such ambitions, but Tom can just tell these things. Ximena _definitely_ has some sort of goal in mind. Without a doubt. He just has to figure out what it is...

But back to the food: there is absolutely something weird about it. Suspicious in a way that is completely not suspicious at all. Ximena does not know about the kitchens. House elves here have no place knowing about those sorts of recipes. He bookmarks the thought in his mind to return to it later.

It is now later.

He tickles the pear.

The kitchens are low activity and uncrowded, contrast to how he imagined it to be. A few house elves scuttle and scurry around, mostly paying him no mind. Some appear to be a little unsettled by his presence, and others simply carry on with their day--After a curt greeting. It’s his first real interaction with such creatures, and it’s odd for him. The animals in his Care of Magical Creatures class don’t speak. They don’t have autonomy. The house elves at the Hallowe’en party didn’t speak either. They only held trays and cleaned up after messes. Here, they walk about comfortably, completely in their environment.

It isn’t until one confidently, yet timidly, asks him if he was here to cook as well, that he notices he isn’t alone. His head cranes to try and listen...

There’s another student here, humming away happily like Snow White. The smell of freshly baked bread reaches him, as well as something sweeter. He ignores the house elf, turning the corner and spotting the culprit: an older girl with mousy brown hair cut in a bob, and pasty skin. When he runs into the corner of a counter, pushing some pots over into an empty sink, she turns to him--And her look of shock is familiar.

“ _Kowalska._ ” He acknowledges, and the plain faced girl smiles, a little uneasily, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just curious as to what you’re doing.”

“Oh, just baking a little.” She tips some sugar into a bowl, on-the-spot, “I was homesick.”

He can’t relate, “Can I watch?” This opportunity might prove useful, and maybe she’ll share whatever she’s making with him.

“Oh--Oh yes of course you can, um--” A hesitation, “Riddle, correct? Tom Riddle?”

His hand is extended, “Yes. You’re--”

“Ah, Elle Kowalska is fine.” She clears her throat, shaking his hand gently, “It’s a middle name I prefer.”

Curious, but Tom can somewhat understand. Out of anyone here, he can understand reservations about names.

He pulls up a stool.

“Pris? Bring me some of that butter now, please.” Her voice raises slightly to reach the ears of a house elf a few meters away.

“Right away, Miss Kowalska.” The house elf disappears. Tom’s eyes widen.

“Never seen a house elf disapparate, I see.” He shakes his head, “You’ll learn how to do that in your seventh year.” _He’ll what._

“Will I really?”

She chuckles, “Of course. It’s dangerous, but wicked fun, I hear.” Another hum as the house elf reappears with a platter of butter, “Thank you, Pris! That’ll be all.”

“Pris is honored to help Miss Kowalska.” A bow, and she disappears again.

“--You’re so nice to them.” It’s out before he can control it. But Elle doesn’t appear to be upset at his words.

“Kindness is much needed these days.” A sigh as she sets the platter aside towards Tom, “I don’t like being cruel.”

He can’t relate, “What are you making?”

“It’s an old recipe from my grandmother--kołaczki.” She mixes the dry, powdered ingredients with a wooden spoon, “They’re like cookies.”

“Are they magical?”

Elle chuckles again, Tom feels like she’s making fun of him, “In a personal way, yes.” She looks up in thought, “It’s a type of old magic. So old, even some muggles can do it.” She sounds as if she knows what she’s talking about, but Tom doesn’t believe it regardless. Muggles _can’t_ do magic. That’s why they’re muggles, “When you make food, especially from an old recipe, it has... _something special_ about it. When you make food meant for sharing, it...becomes more than just food. Sharing food, breaking bread, is sacred. To do so under a foreign house would guarantee your safety. Families in the East share food to show love and community. To miss a meal is to miss a communion. A ritual.”

Tom blinks, “Is it really all that?”

She is determined to prove her point, “When you ingest food, you are nourishing your body: your temple. When you _share_ food, especially food that you made or food from your culture, you share a piece of you. You nourish others around you. You’re creating a bond.” She clears her throat, “It’s why students here all eat from the same kitchen: Hogwarts wants us to be a whole. To work together as a school.” Spoken like a true Hufflepuff.

“So then, there’s magic in our food?”

A pause, “The whole ritual has magic, really.” She finishes mixing the flour, “Pass me the butter, please, Tom.”

He does so, “I’ve never shared a meal before. Not really.”

“Oh that’s a shame,” She’s pitying him, and he hates it, but he takes it, “It’s lovely. Really intimate--Hard to describe.” Her shoulders shrug as she pinches the butter into the flour.

“--Why don’t you use magic to do that?” He peers over the bowl curiously.

“I like getting my hands dirty.” A soft laugh, “Magic is good, but this is better.”

There is a small moment of silence, “It’s almost like when you use magic without a wand, isn’t it?”

Elle perks up an ear, peering at him curiously.

“You can point a wand and make your dough knead itself, but when you do it with your hands, it’s direct--Do you understand?”

A smile and a nod, “Yes, exactly.”

“Your food magicks are lovely,” Tom compliments, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff herself.”

Her face burns, red bleeding into her pale skin rapidly in a way that made Tom think of radishes, “You really think so?” Elle looks as if she were reassuring herself on his statement, “I’m working on a thesis for it, but none of the teachers, save for Dumbledore, will take me seriously...” She sighs, “Maybe it is an idea for a younger generation.” A smile, “More people should be as open-minded as you, Tom.”

If more people were like him, then he wouldn’t be--couldn’t be--special. “Your words are gracious and kind.”

Elle smiles, “And such manners! I wish my little cousin could be more like you.” The dough is kneaded out on the flour-covered surface of the counter before her, “She’s over in Ilvermorny right now in her first year.”

“Ilvermorny?”

“Oh right, you’re...” She cuts herself off, clearing her throat, “Uhm...It’s a wizarding school in the States.”

The words ‘ _there are other schools in other countries?’_ almost comes out of his mouth, but luckily they do not. Of course they have other schools! How stupid. He just never really...thought about it. No one had mentioned it to him.

“What’s it like there?”

“Strict and authoritarian, if her letters are to be believed.” Elle chuckles, but there’s a stiffness about her that leads Tom to conclude that she was worried for her cousin, “You know, it was founded by an Irish witch? A descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself.”

This interests him greatly, “No, I didn’t know.”

“The school is very proud of its founder and history, it’s gotten very picky with which students to let in each year.” The dough is flattened with a rolling pin before she begins to cut into them to place on a tray, “I think they want a lot of potential under their roof to bring greater glory to the school.” Elle lays the cut pieces of dough on the tray, perfectly spacing them out evenly and neatly.

“A bit like Slughorn, no?”

A snort, unladylike and very strange coming from her, “Yes. Yes, I should say a lot like Slughorn and his little collection. He’s a perfect Slytherin.”

Yes...He is...Praising and nurturing and grooming the magical world’s next politicians, influencers, and sports stars. Funneling their fame, fortune, and prestige back onto him. He’s always the first in line because he’s allowed to cut it. Always the one listened to because he was given a podium. Always knows what cards the other players are holding because they willingly show him.

An understanding clouds Tom’s mind. Elle places the tray in the oven and lights the logs underneath with a flick of her wand.

“...No instant heat spell to make them bake faster?” He already expects a certain answer, but he baits her regardless.

“Good things take time.” A firm nod. “Anticipation makes the satisfaction better.”

Tom wraps his head around the idea, but finds himself too impatient to really absorb it, “Who taught you to bake?”

“Like most girls, I learned from my grandmother.” She sits on a stool she conjures, her hands sit folded and intertwined on her lap, palms down. “I’m told I get my magic abilities from her too.”

The sentence strikes a chord of curiosity and confusion for him, “She’s the only witch in your family?”

Elle seems a little uncomfortable, perhaps. It’s not the right word, but it’s the first word to come to Tom’s mind. “No, but she’s certainly the most powerful one.” Her voice lowers a bit, against her own will. She clears her throat but does not speak.

Tom wants this conversation to continue moving forward, but looking at her face and at the cards in his hand, he decides it’s not the right move, and instead goes back to his original mission, “Did you teach the elves here how to bake your special foods?”

“Oh yes--They’re very good listeners, and they learn quick. I’ve taught Pris and the rest all they know about kosher Polish cooking.” Elle’s chin is raised high, “Before this, my brother had to make due with _English_ kosher foods.” She makes a face as if she had smelled something foul, “No offence intended, of course, but food from home is best.”

He’s not sure how to take offence to that. He’s English, sure, but he’s never particularly felt prideful about it. If anything, the Hufflepuff’s words are proof for him that everyone (no matter now nice) has their own private prejudices. Elle’s is on food, Hedwig’s is on blood. “None taken. Can I try some?”

Her hand rests on her heart, “My goodness, you’re so cute--Of course you can! Once they’re done baking.”

His head turns to the oven to his left, and he waits.

-

When classes resume at Hogwarts, he is surrounded by Slytherins in well and content moods, speaking to one another about the delightful Yuletide Holiday Feast that the Parkinsons hosted this year. From what Tom can gather of their conversations, somebody had poured an entire bottle of Daisyroot Draught into the punch meant for the underage wizards, which caused a hilarious scandal and a hideous humiliation on behalf of the Averys. The stories and jests are so lackadaisical, that Tom can’t help but resent their pompous joy. One would think these people had never experienced a real disaster in their lives. His thoughts are confirmed further when Nemesis catches up with him on his way to Potions, red nose up in the air and flipping her slick hair over her shoulder and showing off whatever new silver trinket hangs around her neck.

“It’s such a good thing you weren’t there, Riddle, _it was a total disaster._ ” She sighs, “It almost ruined my entire holiday.” Nemesis...Nemesis is so _smart_ , but she concerns herself with such stupid things. She doesn’t care what people _think,_ but cares about what people _say._ She doesn’t let a mistake ruin her tasks in the classroom, but lets a damn prank ruin her entire holiday.

Hedwig says something similar as he sits by her, though considerably less cringeworthy, “I wasn’t there when it happened, thank Merlin, but I heard that Missus Parkinson cried from having her ball ruined. Several house elves were punished.”

Tom looks upon this information with displeasure. Hedwig sneezes, “Ah fuck, Eric said that I would get sick after the break--”

“A premonition?”

She snorts, taking her seat at their table, “Don’t be daft, Riddle, all the purebloods get sick after the holidays.”

Slughorn begins his lecture with a warm welcome to all the students, going on to speak about the increase in difficulty that they will soon bare through. Hedwig snorts at his speech. Tom is tempted to do the same, but he holds back. Got to keep up appearances.

The two are set to brew a pepperup potion as they continue to converse.

“I can’t believe you got to spend Yule here all by yourself, Riddle, how did you not tear your fecking hair out?”

“I liked the quiet. I could think clearly.”

“What do you have to think about? You’re eleven.”

“ _Twelve,_ ” an immediate correction, “my birthday was on the thirty-first.”

“Well happy fucking birthday, Riddle, let’s celebrate late by getting top marks for this damn potion.”

At this point, Hedwig’s cursing is almost comforting as it is familiar. As the fumes and steam from the hot peppers rise up from the cauldron into his lungs, Tom finds himself a bit lightheaded, as he thinks about seeing Ximena again.

-

During lunch, here’s no luck with finding her, though Tom does see and catch up with Abbas, who invites him to sit down with him, Topaz, and Ian Rosier. He lasts exactly twelve seconds before Ian asks his bloodstatus. Typical. He is suspicious, at first, when Tom tells him that he was raised in a muggle orphanage, but the suspicion leaves when he hears about Tom’s excellent grades and magicks. _No mudblood could be that good at magic._ Ian makes no mention of half-bloods, but Tom doesn’t bring it up.

“There’s so little respectable skill in our year, we’ve had to dig him up.” Abbas jokes, “I bet he could easily outsmart anyone--Anyone at all, just name them.”

“What about Lane?” Topaz asks. Tom’s ears perk up.

“She associates with mudbloods.” Ian’s nose crinkles, “Druella and I see it in Charms. That’s enough to write her off.”

His first instinct is to defend, but he waits.

“Baker is her assigned partner in there, you can’t blame her for speaking to her during class.” Topaz chuckles, popping a few chips into his mouth. Ian makes a face that says _I sure as hell can,_ and frowns.

“Association means nothing.” Abbas begins after a moment of thought, “Take the Weasleys...They’re self-proclaimed pro-muggle, right?” Ian shows nothing but contempt and Topaz nods, “Yet when was the last time one of them married one? _Married a mudblood? Or a half-blood for that matter?_ ”

A pause at the table. Gears turning. The talk is familiar, Tom’s heard it from many sources. Hedwig being the loudest. His mentor being the most clear-minded.

“...Huh.” Topaz is besides himself, “You know, now that I think about it, you’re right.”

“ _And?_ ” Ian is a hair away from being scandalized, Tom can tell.

Abbas rolls his eyes, “And, as long as people are keeping the dirty blood out, who cares who they speak to?” He bites into an apple, “Bwesuhds,” some chews and a swallow, “muggles have their uses.”

Muggles have their uses. Hedwig spoke of keeping some as potential replacements for house elves. Tom himself thought about some of the more nicer cultural works that muggles have contributed to society. What did Abbas mean?

“As what?” Topaz prompts.

“Moving hex targets?” Tom finally speaks up, cracking what he hopes will be a successful jest.

It lands successfully. Topaz and Abbas erupt in chuckles, and even Ian cracks a smile, despite himself, “Well they would certainly be better to strike than firsties.”

“Debatable.” Abbas says, still smiling, “But yes, that’s an example.” Another bite of the apple, “...Tom, you know Lane personally, right?”

A spotlight rests on him. Metaphorically, of course.

“We speak sometimes.”

“Is she a true Slytherin, then?”

There’s no need to ask what that means. Tom knows. Does she bring good publicity and honor to their house? Does she look down on her inferiors? Does she have dirty blood?

“She is as much a Slytherin as I am.”

Abbas smiles.

-

When he sees other students reunite in the Great Hall after a long winter break, they hug. Smile and cheer and embrace each other tightly. Even the Slytherins do it. Tom watches them all silently. Observing. What kind of emotions spring up from touching someone like that? How does it _feel_ physically to touch another like that? It looks strange. Unnatural. Uncomfortable. He’d understand it if it were some sort of social requirement to be done and over with as fast as possible, but the hugs always linger. People always hold fast to the other person, often reluctant to let go.

He turns his head down from people watching and scans the room. Dinner at Hogwarts, the first night back, is chaos. A loud shouting match erupts from the Gyffindors over on the other side of the hall, and Tom jumps in surprise. Good lord, they act like a pack of baboons. What are they yelling about now? Probably some Quidditch nonsense. They’re chanting someone’s name--Vane? Cain? Doesn’t matter. Ignore them.

His eyes search for his housemate, and he finds her quick: Treating herself to a large platter of vibrant baked goods, Ximena sits alone; content in her solitary state, she is paying little to no mind to the absurdly loud commotion over at the Gryffindor table. Tom slides in next to her, giving a polite greeting.

“Mmf--” Her mouth is full, crumbs littered around her lips and cheeks, “hehwo.” A hand comes up to cover her mouth as she chews and swallows the food. Cute. How is it that he always catches her unguarded?

“Sor--” A rough cough, “Sorry. Hi.”

“I thought you were going to choke yourself there.”

“I almost was.” Her throat clears, “I guess you scared me.”

“Me?” His head tilts, voice raising high-- _Little old me?_

“Well I suppose that’s why I’m not in Gryffindor,” a half smile, “I imagine most aren’t easily started by eleven year old first years.”

Tom sits up a little straighter, “ _Twelve_ year old first years.”

A blink, “You’re twelve?”

“It was my birthday on the thirty-first, remember?” He had written about it rather explicitly.

“Oh,” she pauses, lips pressing together briefly, “here then.” She picks up a small plate at her side and sets it before Tom, “Take some of my sweets. It’s not a birthday cake, but it’s something.”  

For whatever reason, Tom hesitates before reaching out tentatively and snagging a large, round cookie with colorful sprinkles spattered on top like stars in the night sky. He takes another one, this one soft and shaped like a flat pretzel. The last one is a dark brown, cake-like cookie that’s shaped like a pig. When it hits his plate, he notices Ximena eyeing him closely. The focused attention makes his face feel warm for some reason. He likes it. Somewhat. Finally biting into the first treat, he realises that his housemate is watching for a reaction.

The sweet is light and fluffy. Melts in his mouth into a buttery pleasure. His teeth crunch the little round sprinkles, and they pop about his mouth pleasantly. It’s leagues away from the heavily sugared baked goods that he is used to eating here at Hogwarts.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

She looks relieved. Shoulders relaxing, a breath leaving her mouth, Ximena returns to her own little after-dinner snack, offering up her warm mug of chocolate for Tom to dip his own treats into. He does, and though the foamy hot chocolate threatens to burn his mouth, he delights in it. It tastes bubbly and spicy and feathery, and he wants to drink up the whole thing down.

All is well.

“Do you know how to make these?” He lets the question raise up naturally, wiping a few crumbs from the corner of his lips.

“Me? No.” Her voice sounds dejected. “I can bake bread, but not much else.”

Disappointment. But somehow he thinks she isn’t lying this time. Isn’t hiding something. “Ever wanted to learn?”

Confirmation in the form of a nod, “Mmhm. I’ve been searching around back home for a baker to apprentice under, but no luck yet. They don’t want me out and about by myself, you see.”

“What a shame.” His tone is sympathetic. “I think you would be good at it.”

“You think so?” The last time she had asked him this, it ended in a strange omen of flowers and crows, so he hesitates at his next words,

_“I know so.”_

Stillness. He waits for something to happen again, just like last time. Nothing does. Ximena merely continues eating and humming contently as the rowdy Gryffindors start up again over Merlin knows what.

“..When is your birthday?”

“Hm?”

“Your birthday. When is it?”

“April the thirtieth.”

His eyes roll up, trying to count how long until then.

“Three months. Fifteen weeks.” Ximena cuts him off.

“You’ll be thirteen?”

“I’ll be thirteen.”

A pause, “We were born in the same year then. Why are you ahead of me?” He’s not sure how his voice portrays his emotions, but he’s sure it’s not the way he wants them to come across.

“You have to be eleven when the first term starts at Hogwarts,” she begins, “so the September first when I started, you were still ten.”

He was still ten. Still ten and oblivious to the fantastic world he was meant for. Still ten and trying to be adopted. Still ten and alone. His little fist tightens. Something like bitterness rises in his throat.

He stuffs more cookies into his mouth.

-

The one thing Tom did not look forward to when the school started up again after the holidays, was his weekly meetings with Dumbledore. True, they often prove informative, but he was beginning to debate with himself on whether the information and free sweets was worth the scrutiny he withstood from him. Christ, it was like the man had him on trial for something he didn’t even do--Or for something that wasn’t even that big of a deal. Petty theft of a few loosey goosey items belonging to awful children at the orphanage is hardly anything to hold over the head of a child for the rest of his life. The situation with Billy and his damn rabbit is another matter entirely, but it’s not as if he hung _Billy_ from the rafters. He’s above murder. And Dumbledore doesn’t know about that anyways, there’s no way he would know. And yet...

It does seem as if Dumbledore is overly concerned over him. It was that moment, that _one_ moment back at Wool’s, when they first met, when Tom demanded that he tell him where to get a wand of his own. He knows it. He should have been patient. He should have stayed silent and polite the whole way. But he couldn’t help it. How could he? For so long he had been wanting an answer to his questions. A means to get ahead. Above everyone else. A way to be sure he was never stepped on again.

And because of his loss of temper, he has an exceptionally powerful wizard on his damn tail every second of everyday. Well, that’s an exaggeration. He at least keeps him under watch during his lessons, and their weekly tea. Both times where Tom feels at his tensest. Most like he has to put on some type of performance. It’s like Dumbledore is playing a strategy game with him, though he does not know the rules.

These thoughts, he shares with his guide a few weeks into the new semester.

“It is a little noteworthy that Dumbledore has taken care to make sure you’re adapting well to Hogwarts specifically.” He pauses in his essay writing, “I think he sees something of himself in you.”

“He sees himself in me?”

“Think about it: you’re both exceptionally gifted warlocks, both a little mysterious, and let’s face it, Tommy, you’ve both got a little ego too.”

Tom scowls a little. He had thought that he did his hubris well. Not once had he done or said anything to show that he was the least bit arrogant or proud. Not at Hogwarts, anyways.

“Don’t look at me, like that. We’re Slytherins, having an ego is somewhat of a requirement.” He chuckles, “Of course, what separates us from the Gryffindors is that we _know_ we have an ego. Most of the time.” The younger boy can agree with that. Most of his housemates have some sense of self-awareness, but many others do not. “Anyways, don’t think he’s attacking you or anything. I think you just interest him on a personal level. There’s not many orphans in the history of Hogwarts with your history. Or lack of one, really.”

Gee, that makes Tom confident about his situation.

“Your surname is an interesting one, you know. Riddle. A mystery. An enigma. It suits you.”  He shifts his weight to his elbow, bent on the table, “It’s curious. I’ve never heard it among wizardkind or muggles.” Tom doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Luckily it doesn’t hurt with your popularity. I think it enhances, it actually.” He leans back in the armchair, “I’ve heard Shafiq and Kingsley muttering about it, actually--”

 _This_ is news to Tom. Shafiq and Kingsley are seventh years: a group of students he has had no real access to, or chance to acquaint himself with. They were speaking about _him?_ Name dropping him in their conversations? Tom compresses the need to preen visibly, it would be bad for his humble orphan image.

“--you’re a character straight out of legend. You could be anyone. A scion of an ancient house, a mythical hero...Sure, you _could_ be some muggleborn nobody, but that’s not as exciting.” Eye contact and a raised brow, “And not as realistic.”

_Salazar Slytherin would never allow a muggleborn into his house._

“I feel so ordinary, that’s hard to believe.”

“I mean it when I say you’re going to do great things, Riddle. I have an eye for these things, I told you and Lane remember?” A scratch under his nose, “Speaking of, what have you brought Lane?”

Huh?

“What do you mean? Why would I have bought her something?”

“ _Merlin_ , Riddle, it’s no wonder you haven’t gotten anywhere with Lane.” His guide’s criticisms are completely unwarranted. He’s gone plenty. “Nothing for her birthday? Not even flowers?”

Oh. Does he always concern himself with the troubles and lives of boys more than four years his junior? Doesn’t he have finals to study for? Besides, Ximena doesn’t want anything. She told him herself a week or so ago.

“She said she didn’t care about her birthday.”

“Women say that all the time, Riddle! It’s a test!”

Ximena once tested him on a DADA review, but it wasn’t really something issued personally (she was helping another first year with it, and their lunch table ended up becoming a small study group). But this? A test of what? They aren’t married. And birthdays don’t really mean anything outside of becoming older and stronger. There are never any parties at Wool’s whenever a child has the privilege of knowing when they were born, and instead there is maybe a song and maybe a little game. But only if the child is well loved. No gifts. No cake. No creating lasting memories. What’s the big deal?

“Why is she testing me?”

He expects something like ‘to see if you’re worth it’ or ‘to see if you’re genuine’, but his mentor continues to disappoint and surprise, “I don’t know, Riddle, women are crazy.”

Tom thinks the opposite sex has strange methods of going about things. But so far, they’ve been very efficient in their studies compared to the boys he’s spoken to. He really needs to speak to different boys.

“I think you’re overreacting.”

He looks offended, “I see you’ve never been on the bad side of a woman scorned on her birthday, Riddle.”

When would he have had the opportunity to?

“You need to trust me, Tommy boy. I saw it last year, she was real upset on the day. Crying. Found her in the Astronomy Tower.”

Something like experience tells Tom that she wasn’t crying about people forgetting her birthday. Every emotional birthday he has been through has been a result of...Remembering where he is in life. How far away he was from adoption and leaving Wool’s. Of course the other children and adults wouldn’t care or know about his date of birth. Nevermind that some of them were alive when his _mother_ gave birth and died on the steps of that awful place. Why would anyone remember it? Or celebrate it.

“Was she okay?” Concern is laced through his voice perfectly.

“Dunno,” shrug, “she wouldn’t say anything. Just weeped. Ruined my perfectly good new robes too.”

Tom coughs suddenly, feeling like something crawled into his throat and died.

“Whoa there, breathing right, Riddle?” His guide pats his back, half soothing, half rough. It makes him stiffen up at the contact.

“ _I’m fine._ I’m fine--Thank you.” Tom lets the bewilderment wash past him to try and focus on the conversation, “So she was that upset, then.”

“Oh yeah, it was pretty bad. She’s a clinger, so you’re in for some softening up if you ever want to get close.” He jests, lightly smacking Tom’s shoulder.

His words are not appreciated. They _are_ close. Or at least, closer than she is to others, he would like to think. Granted, she’s never done anything like cry _into_ him, but he doesn’t want that. Amy Benson was a messy, ugly crier. She clung to Dennis Bishop in that oceanside cave for dear life, snot coming out of her nose and salty tears streaming down her wrinkled face. They got what they deserved.

 _Still_ , it wouldn’t hurt to...at least remember the date. Get a chocolate frog or a bookmark? He’d have to get it from somebody, he has no money--

“In fact, _here,_ ” The older Slytherin digs into his pocket and brings out six sickles, “have one on me.” The silver coins pour into Tom’s open palms, his eyes wide and glistening,“That should be enough for some flowers, yeah?” Daft idiot, this is enough to feed him for two _months_.[1]

In the end, Tom decides on pocketing four of the sickles to save up for later (how much do you need to have to open an account at Gringotts?) and using the remaining two for something simple: a package of saltwater taffies and nice looking wrapping paper.

The sweets are acquired via owl, through some fancy shop Hedwig suggested when he asked about where to get good candy. The shoppe, as it turns out, is in Nice. That explains the price, he was expecting something like that. Still, when Hattie comes back to him with the most luxurious little paper package, he can’t help but be impressed and captivated by the shining gold details on the design that dance and shimmer around the light blue box like eels in water. A part of him wants to indulge himself and eat the whole box, but he refrains, and instead eats another helping of hotcakes with chocolate sauce. The saltwater taffies are tucked into his school bag for later.

The wrapping paper is made. Under guidance of Nemesis, he turns the plain butcher paper into a jewel toned green shade with a lovely shine. A bright, cool color, but not obnoxious. He lays it out on a table in the library next to the gift, Nemesis at his side.

She eyes it with a little gleam in her eye, “So what are _you_ up to with this, Riddle?”

Honestly, he’s not sure. Investing, mayhaps. “Wrapping a gift.”

Her amber eyes sparkle, “A gift? For whom?”

It’s not like her to be nosy. At least, not with others, “Lane. It’s her birthday on Sunday.” The cuts and measuring on the paper start. This has to be seamless. _Perfect._

 _“Oh.”_ She watches his little hands carefully folding over the wrapping paper, “Want me to teach you a auto-wrapping spell?”

“I would like that very much, thank you.” That honestly sounds like a useless spell, but he wants to know it anyways. He wants to know everything. “Not for this, though.”

“Why not?” Her pitch raises up a little, “It would be much faster. Instant. Easier.” She clears her throat, voice returning to normal, “No risk of papercuts!”

“Thank you for your concern, Fawley. But I like doing some things by hand.” He lays his eyes on her, offering a gentle smile, “It makes it special, doesn’t it?”

For a split second, her lips purse before breaking into a grand saccharine smile, “Yes. It does.”

-

April 30th is a colder than average Sunday. Mist hangs in the air and rolls onto the grounds, covering the courtyard and open corridors in a cool fog so thick, you can’t see three meters in front of you. Prefects and Professors keep the spaces clear for the most part, but since it’s Sunday, there are not many students out and about. Most of them are in Hogsmeade, and the rest are in their testing classrooms for the start of the end of the year exams.

Quiet murmurs and conversations hang loosely in the Slytherin common room. When Tom returns from breakfast, he nods his greetings at a few classmates on his way to the dormitories when he spots the familiar mop of curls he’s grown to know well.

He halts.

Frozen. It is definitely _not_ terror or nerves, he finds he can’t speak aloud. Reach out to her. Go and simply give her the neatly wrapped present (tucked away in his school bag). Not even a little hello.

In her own little world, Ximena pays no mind to the eyes on her. Humming softly under her breath and reading through the open book on the table before her, she is an image of studious peace. A Ravenclaw by any other name. His body stiffens when she rises up from her seat and wanders over to the little library to her left, a few meters away.

This is his chance.

He is quick and nimble just like Jack, and the gift is taken out of the bag and left on the table near her workspace. Right beside her parchment and inkwell. He hides-- _moves_ to the other side of the table, sitting nonchalantly and reading through a spare newsletter. Ximena returns from the bookshelf absolutely none the wiser and sits herself down quietly with a new book.

…

She doesn’t notice the gift.

Aggravated, he’s tempted to ask ‘oh, is that yours?’, but impatience has never gotten him anywhere. How could she not notice the gift? _It’s right there!_ It’s bright green! It stands out like a gnome in a vacant garden! For a moment he thinks he sees her eyes flicker to it--Is that a smile? It’s hard to tell. But Ximena only picks her quill up, taps out excess ink, and continues writing whatever assignment it was she was working on (Tom saw some quip about bezoars, so perhaps it was potions). His fingers tense around the paper in his hands the longer she goes on without acknowledging it. He blinks sweat off his lids--It’s not even _hot_ in the room, it’s just a lot when you’re trying to see the look on someone’s face while not letting them know you’re looking at them.

He moves it. With magic, of course, he’s never needed a wand to do little things like that. Nothing fancy like flying it into her face painfully, just a little nudge. A little flutter... _There!_ She saw it now! ...She glances away again, the little grin on her face plain as the green interior of their shared common room. She _is_ ignoring it. She _is_ pretending she doesn’t see it. She--

Hedwig trots up out of nowhere (where in God’s name did she come from?) “Hey, free gift!” Her voice travels loud and far, it almost makes him flinch. The cotton-haired witch picks up the package which she helped select and _shakes_ it violently, turning it over in her hands, inspecting it in such a comically exaggerated way that Tom wants to rip it from her grasp and run away.

“Oh, this is for you.” Fuck’s sake, “Here.” She passes it onto Ximena.

“Mm?” A relaxed blink as she takes the assaulted package gently, “Who’s it from?”

“What, you need me to read for you now, slag?” Hedwig shakes her head, hands on her hips as she walks away, mumbling, “ _I have to do everyone’s job around here, I swear to Salazar--_ ”

To Ximena’s credit, she isn’t bothered by her junior’s words or actions, she simply continues to keep that content gaze on her face as she reads the carefully written out label on the parcel, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Hm.”

When she starts opening the package, the tension in his hands do not cease. Every little moment she does to insure the paper does not rip is as carefully choreographed as the performances in an opera house. Meticulous and detailed (something he can appreciate)... It’s the kind of care and attention only a mother can give to tucking a child away for bed.

Tom shoves that comparison right out of his head.

An eternity passes before finally the jewel colored paper is fully unwrapped, and the gift is out in the open, bared before her like a humble offering to a god--And _God,_ even the way she picks it up and inspects it is careful. Like she were handing robin’s eggs or fine china. It opens up with a soft puff of powdered sugar, and rather anti-climatically, she pops one into her mouth. Does she like it? Does it please her?

A noise of delight.

“You want one?”

He’s actually startled that she addressed him, his guard must have been high up. He relaxes his shoulders as he contemplates her and her outstretched hand with the little decorative bag of taffies. Tom can’t speak, suddenly, so he nods, feeling dumb, and reaches his small hand inside the bag.

-

During lunch his final week, he plans to sit amongst a few Slytherin elites. He doesn’t want to wade through their spoiled ramblings on their summer holidays, but he _does_ want to know more about said holidays. He makes a beeline towards the Slytherin tables, at first, when he notices another student: sitting stray and content, off to the side.

A moment’s consideration.

His path deviates, and he walks firmly towards the lone student, determined.

“Excuse me? Prewett, right? Might I sit with you?”

Ignatius Prewett is, in the end, no one. Middle-class, pureblooded and Gryffindor, he has set his sights on a more impossible pedestal than Ximena: Lucretia Black. That’s cute. And interesting. She’s a pureblood Slytherin a bit more tolerant than most (which perhaps isn’t saying much while also saying everything), and whose pedigree doesn’t show as blatantly on her skin (luckily for her pretty pale face, the last case of kissing cousins in her direct line was five generations ago). When asked, Ximena described her as “pleasant but egotistical”. His guide was more crude, going with “all members of house Black have madness in them, it’s what you get when you lie in bed with cousins; even the good ones like Lucretia are a little batty”.

He remembers Cygnus Black from his first night at Hogwarts: unpleasant with a temper, and wary of him. It took a few weeks of proper speech and excelling grades to convince him that he was worthy of being spoken to. It took mere hours to show him that he was his superior in intelligence and skill. Thus, placing him securely in his pocket for later use.

It is later. He asks him about his opinion on Ignatius one evening in the common room. He is not disappointed.

“Prewett?” A sneer, “I’ve seen how he looks at Lucretia. Doesn’t know how to mind his damn eyes to himself. House Black has no need of blood like his.”

That’s a little bold, “All this you got from looks?”

Cygnus backpedals, “I know what a look leads to, Riddle.” He clears his throat, “Lucretia is bright young woman from the most noble and ancient house. She needs to have _company_ that reflects that.”

Tom smells Cygnus’ need to justify himself. He pushes, “Prewett is pureblood, though, is he not?” From a long standing dynasty.

“Certainly not as _pure_ as we are.” He huffs, jaw clenching, “Besides, he’s a Gryffindor. And Gryffindors have no business speaking with Slytherins.”

What nonsense. Ignatius, while not exactly prime wizard material, checks off more than enough requirements for being _worthy_ of a highblood.

“So, what you’re saying is, not all purebloods are equal.”

“Exactly, Riddle.” Cygnus nods, satisfied with the conversation, “You’re smart. I wouldn’t be surprised if you yourself had a little Black in you, somewhere.”

“A high compliment.” Tom inclines his head ever so slightly, “Thank you, Black.”

Next, he speaks to Lucretia. She’s found in the library one afternoon studying Ancient Runes and sneaking honey-pumpkin cracker jackers while the librarians aren’t aware. She is guarded, at first, but she soon melts at the mention of the Gryffindor boy.

“Prewett is different.” She plays with the quill in her hand, “Gryffindors are so brash and awful, you know? It’s like speaking to rowdy children. But him? He’s just so...” A vague hand gesture, “He is...He is what Gryffindors _should_ be. He could single-handedly bring true glory and nobility to his house.” A sigh, “It’s just hard to speak with him outside of class, you know?”

“Why?”

“You know why!” She exasperates, “You’ve been here long enough, being in different houses is like being on different sides of a war. You can talk but you can’t _talk._ ”

An exaggeration, but still accurate, nonetheless, “But we’re not at war. And you’re both purebloods, what’s the problem?”

“ _What would people say?_ ”

Good lord, is she serious? _What would people say?_ Her family has limitless power, money, and influence, and she’s worried about what others will say? Nemesis herself told him that a member of house Black would never step foot in Azkaban due to their damn status. Stupid girl.

He could say something motivational. Something inspiring. Something about how true love will find a way. Will conquer all. Will power through. He doesn’t, of course, that’s not who he is.

Instead, he leans over in secret, “I can help.”

His plan is simple, but a long wait. When discussed with Lucretia, she gives him that guarded look again. That look of distrust and doubt, but his words move her eventually. Spark something like determination or hope in her. Of course they do. They can make anyone believe in him. In his ideals and dreams.

And all he asks in return is a simple favor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I tried looking up how much each unit of wizarding money is worth, and got nowhere. Joanne is useless at math again u.u I can relate. So instead I leave it up to interpretation: Is the mentor so stupid rich that he has no idea what the real value of money is? Or is Tom so poor that such a little amount of money could feed him for two months? Maybe both.
> 
> I watched AVPM for the first time with Lion, and the first thing she says is that the way Draco is in that is how she sees Tom in this fic. I can’t unsee it. cries. This chapter took a long time to upload because she wanted me to read it to her in person, and she only just got here this week.
> 
> Trying to balance out romcom tropes I know people are fond of, and also actual plot. I’ll probably have a dilemma on whether to not to shoehorn in the classic potions partners scenario. Because how could I not?
> 
> Wanted to take a moment here to thank everyone who hearted, subscribed, watched, followed, kudos’d, bookmarked, rec’d, and favored this story on all the sites it’s on. Y’all are silent, but I still appreciate you regardless. I hope this story is building up to what you wanted it to be. I also thank those who added me to their fav author’s/watch/etc. Hope my other works satisfy y’all o/
> 
> Fun fact about this chapter: it’s the opposite of chapter six! It was growing too damn long, so I chopped it in half. Yes, that means that chapter eight is written, but it’s being heavily edited. Y’all will still have to wait 2-4 weeks u.u Unless there’s some reviews? Cries, I can’t believe I’ve sunk to bribing for comments. 


	8. Spring&Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom leaves Hogwarts for the first time.

  
Something about his last week at Hogwarts makes his skin itch to a point where he wishes to scratch it all off. Several somethings actually.

First, it’s his last week. Obviously. It has come too soon and too fast, and it feels as if he had arrived only yesterday. The past few months have been as thick and indulgent as a dream, making him comfortable. Complacent. It still hadn’t really hit him that he would be leaving soon until he overheard some student casually mention some book he brought to read on the train ride back home, and now he feels like a clock hangs over him constantly, ticking down to the day when he must step back into that awful, musty, _dirty_ place he could never call home.

Second, and really this doesn’t make him want to scratch his skin off because he _doesn’t_ care at all, not even a little bit, is that Ximena is holding conversations with people. At lunch and dinner, he’ll spot or overhear her discuss something or other with their housemates, and it’s not always about academia. It’s not always about a Transfiguration review, or advice on studies, or editing an essay. Lately, it’s been about fashions, broom models, and which professor is the most attractive (Alder and Willow are in the lead, but that’s not important--). Granted, Ximena does not chime in much to these talks, but she actively listens and replies when spoken to, which is more than could be said of _their_ conversations just a few weeks ago. Where had this confidence come from? Was it even confidence? Or was she just trying to be more social? Probably Dumbledore’s doing, then. Some plot to get her to speak to anyone that wasn’t Tom. Because that’s what good, responsible, caring adults do to children. They separate them from Tom.

Third: Dumbledore. Tom had tried to get Dippet to allow him to stay at Hogwarts for over the summer, but Dumbledore quickly shut it down just when he was beginning to get somewhere. Or maybe that’s just his hope telling him that, and Dippet wasn’t ever going to even consider the idea. No, regardless, it was worth it to _try._ Try to make him see. Dippet treats him favorably, it’s only a matter of time before he has him wrapped around his finger. What was Dumbledore’s issue, anyways? What would be so terrible about letting him stay here? Missing new ringworm infections?

The end of term obviously solves the problem of the later two, but what about the first problem? Should he wish that the Muggles finally go to war? Perhaps only then will they keep the muggleborns and himself at Hogwarts for _safety._ Shouldn’t be too farfetched of a wish, Chamberlain is a downright idiot if the radio and adults at Wool’s are to be believed…

He desperately wants a distraction. Anything to get his mind off the inevitable. The fact that it even _is_ inevitable.

Nemesis’ loud squawking laughter draws him away from his thoughts--She’s sitting at the end of the row of tables, alongside a group of young Slytherins and the witch of the week. He leers bitterly. No doubt Ximena has just said something _scandalous_ to the other Slytherins (probably discussing which professor was most attractive again), and Nemesis is giving her commentary on it. She’s been quite chummy with her these last few days, it makes Tom think she’s caught on to just how useful Ximena could be.

As for the older witch herself, she appears mildly uncomfortable with the attention, but she also looks like she’s _desperately_ trying. But what for? Why does she need to try? She doesn’t need them--Not like he does. Has flocking with him ignited some sort of similar goal within her? To rise above others? It’s a thrilling thought, if not unrealistic. He’ll try to push her on it later.

Half of the group disperses, and Tom relaxes again--It’s nothing like how attention was showered on her all those weeks ago, thankfully. It’s more like a subtle shoreline. Coming in and out. Waxing and waning. It comes in phases. One day, she would be alone and solitary as always. As he likes her. As he knows her. As he met her. Another day, she might be located around dozens of other students. Quiet, as always, but listening. He wishes that he hadn’t had been so obvious or open with his interest in his classmate. That she had instead become _his_ special secret, rather than whatever nonsense this was. It makes him wish that he had given her something more concrete than some candies for her birthday. Something permanent and meant to be shown to others…

The reminder of the bracelet burning a hole in his robe pocket is enough to make him shake his head vigorously in order to banish the idea. The candies were enough. They did what they were supposed to, and they did not attract attention (useful as this crush facade is, it is annoying to high heaven, and he’s not sure what he would have done if there was a large audience privy to the gift exchange.) Ximena enjoyed them and they shared food for a second time, though he’s not sure what, if anything, was established between the two of them (are there rules for how much food is needed? Is it only foods that are handmade by the persons sharing? Does it count less because they were sweets and not a full meal?).

As for the remaining money, he’s not sure when he’ll be able to swing by Diagon Alley to open an account at Gringotts, much less if what he has is enough. The thought of squeezing money out of people pitying him for his situation at home is repulsive. He has pride. He does not _need_ financial help. He has his own small collection back at Wool’s (a bundle of bills and coins stuffed under his thin mattress), of which can be converted to proper wizard money. Eventually.

“Alright there Riddle?” Ian Rosier’s ugly face is just what he needs to see. Moreso with his cousin and company in tow.

The Rosiers, from what Tom has gathered in his time here, are somewhere between respectable and social-climbers. Opinions change every century. Their family branches out to nearly all corners of Western Europe (in part thanks to a horrifying tradition of arranging their children in marriages at a young age), and their reputation ranges with every kilometer. His interactions with the second-year siblings hasn’t left much of an impression beyond ‘mildly useful’ (Ian) and ‘annoying’ (Druella) with him, but he’s yet to speak to the one in his own year.

“Salazar, that last practical was a _nightmare,_ I’d much rather have faced off with a bogart.” Their company is Cygnus and Lucretia. Perfect.  

“Don’t give me that, Cygnus, you’d run in the opposite direction the moment it took the form of auntie Vinda.”

The Blacks are a curious bunch. People hush when a member is speaking, and people chatter about them when they leave the room. The ones he has met walk about as if they own the earth beneath their feet, and quite frankly, most would agree that they have the right to. It’s a sort of authority he craves, but it’s also the sort of ego he despises and can’t stand to be around. Cygnus is the worst of it, and so far, Lucretia is the most tolerable, if not easy to sway.

“Oi, your bogart is aunt Vinda too?” Druella jests, setting her books down.

“Only when it’s not cousin Augusta.” Lucretia teases further, eyes down at her reading material.

“Augh!” Ian shivers, and Tom wants to roll his eyes because he is _definitely_ overreacting, “Wretched gir! Heart of a lion and soul of a banshee!”

“What do you expect from a Gryffindor, Ian? It’s why we have the houses, it’s to keep the dignified people away from those...well, _less_ dignified. No offence to _dear_ Augusta.”

Tom gleams. He watches Lucretia calculate.

An opportunity. She strikes.

“ _If you ask me, this sort of rivalry is childish._ ” Lucretia says in a manner that is both nonchalant and prim. Druella blinks at her. Ian appears to be confused. Cygnus, as usual, looks as if he wants to justify himself.

“What the founders themselves wanted is childish?” Druella sounds like she wants to be accusatory, but really it is more like she’s unsure of what she’s saying.

Lucretia lifts her chin up from her book, and Tom is reminded of what family she hails from, “ _I know_ you’re a Ravenclaw, Ella, but do try to not let your pomposity weigh down how you think--You know you’re only allowed to sit here with us because of your family and brother.”

Druella’s face is beet red from anger, it’s a little amusing to Tom just how easily she changes color like a chameleon. Ian himself is indignant, “Excuse me?”

“You all put such weight in where a person is sorted, and yet still openly socialize with your falcon sister. I just think it’s interesting.”

This time, Cygnus intervenes, “It’s different, Lucretia, you know that. Blood is blood.” He tries to make eye contact, to make her see.

The Black girl is seemingly indifferent, “Oh yes, _blood is blood._ But we are all of magick blood, are we not?” Her arms gesture out wide at the whole Great Hall, “Excluding the obvious ones, of course.”

“ _She’s a radical._ ” Druella whispers so harshly into Ian’s ear that Tom’s sure that the Gryffindors on the other side of the hall can hear her.

Cygnus clears his throat, “Yes...There is good blood here in this room aside from...us.” He gives a pause, looking over the table, and Tom knows he is pausing over _him,_ “But what of their minds? How do we know that their thinking is correct?”

“How do we know that Ella thinks correctly?”

“ _I come from a long and proud line of Slytherin house members!_ ”

“--So why aren’t you like them? Not correct thinking enough?”

Druella looks ready to leap across the table and hex Lucretia. Ian, while appearing to hold her back, is prepped to do the same, surely.

“I am spreading our noble cause to the other houses!” She defends herself, “Collecting Ravenclaws to march under one banner is like herding cats, mind you--Some of them don’t even care that they share rooms with mudbloods!”

Apparently this is some sort of shocking scandal, because Cygnus and a few overhearing students react to it quite dramatically.

“You are right to do so, Ella, and I applaud you for it.” Lucretia is a better saleswoman than Tom expected her to be. He wonders if that just comes naturally to pureblood families, “But what has come of it? Do you have allies within your house? Do you sit with them at lunch and during classes?”

Druella stiffens up--She of course has been sitting at the Slytherins’ table for all her two years at Hogwarts (according to both Ximena and Lucretia, that is), and absolutely shit talking the rest of her house.

“That’s...That’s--”

The other girl reaches over the table and sandwiches Druella’s hand in between hers, gives a comforting look, “I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry Ella, I’ve gone too far.” She bites her lip, “It was a silly question, I was just...I don’t know.” A sigh, “Sometimes I think we end up alienating potential supporters that await us in other houses...You know I’ve heard that the Sorting Hat never makes mistakes, but lately, I just don’t know.”

Cygnus purses his lips, not completely convinced, but also deep in thought. Others around their table stay silent or speak in filigree whispers. The commotion, as he had hoped it would be, appears to have been overheard by the Hufflepuff table next to them. He sees two of Nemesis’ siblings and Elle’s brother give lingering stares at Lucretia. She has done her part well, if not for a stupid reason. All this for a boy? And a lackluster one at that? Good grief.

Regardless, everything is going better than expected.

All they need is an idea planted. A little drop of rain water. A small push. A glimpse of words as a book is skimmed through. They will mull over the words and ideas on their train ride back home. They will toss it and turn it over in their heads as they sit down for their first dinner with their families, and listen to their parents’ rave about purity. They will spread the idea around, as gossip or debate, to others. Their siblings, their friends, their caretakers.

Yes. All they have to do is wait. All _he_ has to do is wait.

-

The dawn of his final day brings unease. As he sits for breakfast, he might as well be sitting on death row. The luxurious sweet oatmeal laid out before him is as appealing to him as the paste back at the orphanage. He doesn’t eat. He knows he wouldn’t be able to keep it down, even if he was hungry. Instead, he toys with the bits of fruit set on the side, meant to be placed atop the oatmeal. Squishes them in between his fingers and flicking them across the table, leaving colored puddles at his place, and sweet markings on his hands. It’s a pastime he used a lot back at Wool’s to distract himself from the mundane, but now he finds no joy in it.

He moves through the next four hours like a dead man.

Yes, he exchanges information with others, says goodbyes to his teachers, and the rest, but he does it all with no light in his eyes. He does it automatically, with no real effort or feeling. It’s probably something to be worried about considering that even Dumbledore himself looked concerned over his demeanor...Too late to take back your insistence on keeping him in that hole, old coot. Congratulations on _that_ victory.

When his feet step foot onto the train, he manages to delude himself into pretending that this was his ride _to_ Hogwarts rather than away. That everyone merely already has their robes on and are chatting about home because (like him) Hogwarts is their home. Their real one. It’s a hard lie to slip into, but Tom is nothing if not an amazing actor. When he accepts a few of his fellow future second years’ invitation to sit with them, they do not notice a thing.

Sitting with others is...different. Stark contrast to his first time on the train. He had managed to find a whole compartment to himself, and spent the entire time wringing his hands together and staring out the window at the passing scenery, expecting to see something _magical_ in the countryside. Tom had done quite a bit of pacing as well, being restless and eager to arrive. Why the damn was a _magical_ train so slow anyways? They left promptly at eleven and arrived well after sunset.

The other first years don’t seem to share his view. They _like_ the hours spent on the train, it feels like mere minutes to them. Gives them a chance to catch up on all the latest gossip and happenings from over the summer. They try it on him when he sits in the compartment, sharing their families’ plans for the holidays, what they think the next year will bring, and other such complete _nonsense._ If anything, it makes his time feel like it’s crawling by. What does he care about Iris Parkinson’s potential transfer to Beauxbatons? About the students trying out for the Slytherin team next year? About the goddamn summer solstice festival outfit anyone plans to wear? He’s glad no one can read his thoughts, all they seem to be lately is complaints towards his highblooded classmates. Who knew children could care so hard about idiocities? He can’t wait until they’re all grown and past such things.

Tom lasts three hours. Noble effort. His personal record. But Nemesis’ recount about her ruined time at her eldest sister’s wedding broke him. Faster than he could have thought possible, he lifts himself up from between two other boys and excuses himself as politely as he can, stating that he’s going to go meet with some other _friends_ on the train.

“Say hi to Lane for us!” Blow it out your ass, Bulstrode.

The leisurely pace he sets for himself as he goes through the train aids in clearing his brain. Few of the students are out and about as they were a couple of hours ago, leaving the aisles bare and free of annoyances--Minus the occasional tap tap on a window to catch his attention: other children inviting him inside already crowded compartments is politely denied with a sorry smile and a silent gesture that he was already heading somewhere else. That someone is waiting for him.

This is complete hogwash.

He wants another empty space to himself, being around so many people in such close quarters was exhausting. At least in his classes, he’s not forced to constantly socialize he can focus in silence on his work and selectively speak to others. He doesn’t feel so drained afterwards. So much like taking a nap.

The sight of the empty berths is enough to make him hear heavenly choruses--Picking up his pace a little, his hand shoots out right for the handle and slides the door open, and as he does, his mood lifts because it is not as empty as he thought.

She sits, as if in her own little private roomette, hands in her lap, staring into space. Tom expected for her to be looking out the window, it seems like something she would do. Be wistful. Nostalgic. Yearning.

He clears his throat and asks to sit, because though he has made _much_ progress, there is still something holding him back. Her aloofness, maybe. Her separation. When she gives him permission to sit in the cabin with her, he chooses to sit beside her rather than across from. A different sort of intimate. Something of a powermove. He wonders if she notices it.

“You look happy, excited to go home?”

It’s like she dumped a whole bucket of ice water on his mood.

He is being torn away from his home. _His real home._ Torn away and placed back into that horrid, retched hole called Wool’s. How could anybody do this to a child? Give them all the food, heat, and shelter they were missing from their lives and then cruelly take it away? He feels like someone stabbed their hand into his stomach and twisted it all up before pulling back and taking some of the contents within it. Without a doubt, he should probably eat something, but he knows that it will only come back up.

“What’s wrong?” There is real concern in Ximena’s voice, at least, it sounds real, and Tom avoids eye contact.

“Stomach ache.”

“Eat something bad?”

He shakes his head no, wanting the subject to drop.

“Nausea?” Another shake. “Cramps?” Another. “Nerves?”

Hesitance. A nod.

Immediately, her hands dip through her school bag. He hears the clanking and chiming of glass and metals and the rustling and scrapping of books and pencils. His eyes are about to raise up to try and catch a peek, when her hand juts out holding a small vial of…

“What’s this?”

“Take it. It’ll help.”

It’s stupid to think that Ximena, or any other student at Hogwarts, really, would poison him, but regardless he’s still slow at taking it from her soft hands.

There’s two gulps worth of whatever medicine she gave him inside the translucent brown vial. When he pops it open, the smell of citrus, mint, and ginger wafts up. A moment of consideration, and he sips it. Sweet and prickly. It stings pleasantly on his tongue and leaves a trail of cool stillness down his throat into his stomach. He takes a gulp. The ugly twisting fades. He blinks. “What _was_ that?”

Ximena looks excited in a quiet way, “Something I’ve been working on! I started it the day after the duel, actually.” Her lips press together, “It’s still a work in progress, it’s not as good as the go-to potion for nerves, but I’m glad it helped.” She gives a little wiggle, smiling softly, “You’re the first one to take it aside from me, actually. You’ll keep the secret, right?”

It pleases him that he be the first and only one to know about her little experiment, but he’s not so thrilled at being part test-subject, “I won’t tell.” Are students not allowed to invent potions? Slughorn laid out strict rules for the first years about brewing without supervision, but… “It’s wonderful. You have a gift.”

Satisfied with herself, Ximena settles back down into her seat, taking the vial Tom hands back and tucking it away into her bag.

“Do you plan to be a potioneer?”

A press of her lips, “I haven’t really thought about careers yet.”

“It’s still early.” He sounds reassuring.

She nods, “It might seem that way, I’m sure...But time flies. Before we know it, we’ll be graduating and leaving Hogwarts for good.”

Tom doesn’t like that. The stomach nerves threaten to come back.

“What a sad thought.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Her chin raises up slightly, and she turns her head to stare out the window.

“--At least you’ll be leaving with friends.”

“Hm?”

“Friends. You’ve been more talkative lately.”

“Mm. Yes.” It’s strange that she is not surprised by his observation. Tom expected a ‘have I?’ out of her, “I wanted to try it. To try making friends.”

 _Is he not enough?_ “Why the change of heart?”

Ximena opens her mouth and closes it. Hesitates. “That’s a curious saying, isn’t it? A change of heart.” Perhaps. A deep breath. “Someone in our house has my bracelet.”

It takes everything Tom has for him not to stiffen up visibly. Not to break and tell and reveal his secret. But why? He’s been doing so well. So good. She had no idea. How could she have--

He leans closer, at attention, voice full of concern, “What? How do you know?”

Another press of her lips, “It’s not important.” It damn well is, “I think...I think maybe if I can get a little close, I can catch them.”

“So you don’t think they have it by mistake?”

“No. Not at all.” Her eyes stay forward and hardened. Her fist in a ball. “Stealing property like that--It’s natural. All they’ve ever had for me was disregard or disrespect.” The edge to her voice is enthralling. It’s so close, so related, to rage, that Tom almost wants to egg her on, were it not him that she would be angry at. Had she been keeping this contempt deep inside her all this time? Suddenly, her cool indifference wasn’t so interesting. What _was_ was this anger. Deep and red like petals. “It’ll come back to me. It’s only a matter of time.”

A gulp, and he resists the urge to shove his hands in his pockets where the bracelet lay so close and yet so far from her. He knows having it touch his skin would both give him comfort and also burn. He knows she would notice.

“Can I help?” If there’s anything he’s brilliant at, it’s gaining the trust of others. Maybe he can pin this little _borrowing_ on someone else.

Ximena shakes her head, “No. It’s my responsibility,” A pause, “I don’t know if I trust you yet, but...” She’s searching for the right words. Trying not to offend him or give him the wrong idea, maybe, “It’s my duty as your senior to not share my burdens with you.” Ximena sounds satisfied with that. To Tom, it sounds rehearsed. As if it were written in some prefect guide. It probably was.

“If you’re sure,” he wiggles a little in his seat for added effect, appearing restless and eager to help.

“I am.”

How strange for such a wallflower to be so solid in her stance. For such a quaint little girl to be filled with determination. He sits up straighter in his seat, still coming up short in reaching her height (when are boys supposed to get their growth spurt again?), “You’re diligent.” He compliments.

Ximena finds light amusement in his words, “You have a very good vocabulary; what’s diligent?”

“...Hardworking. Responsible.”

“I see--thank you, I am still learning English.”

What.

“Your English is wonderful.”

“You may stop trying to flatter me now.”

Alright, _fair_ , but Tom wasn’t lying about that. Never had she given him any reason to believe that English wasn’t taught to her since birth. Lord, even her _accent_ is light, showing itself only on sharp vowels and R sounds, “I’m being honest. You speak better than most natives.”

Her head turns to look directly at him, and he feels chills. He stares back at himself in her black eyes.

“...How do I sound?”

“--Pardon?”

“When I talk, how do I sound to you?”

“Uhm, you sound natural. English, with a little flavor.” Oh, he shouldn’t have used that word, it made her quirk a brow at him. Damn highbloods and their infectious diction, “I mean, like you moved here a long time ago, and your English was changed.”

The older girl stays looking at him for a small while, and the longer she does, the more Tom wants to fidget. He can’t sense anything in her stare. Not distrust or anger or doubt. Not relief or thankfulness or affection. It’s awful. He hates it. Anything would be better than a blank slate. Even hatred.

“I see.” She turns back and rests against the seat as Tom releases a breath he very well knew he was holding in, “Just wondering.” Her fingers drum lightly on the top of her thigh, the intensity of her aura taking a nosedive.

“...Do you know what your first language is?”

Open mouth. Hesitance. Closed mouth.

“That’s an interesting question.”

He almost snorts.

“Spanish? I assume?” _Or whatever language you wrote in that book that I can’t figure out…_

“I think...Spanish is one of them.” She presses her lips together again, “but I’m not sure. My name aside, I was taught it at the abbey.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the Mother Superior is Spanish and saw to it. It paid off, in the end.”

Tom has never heard anyone speak who was from Spain. He wonders if their Spanish would sound like Ximena’s, “How so?”

“It’s worked wonders in Divination; most texts are originally in some sort of Latin language, and knowing one of them makes it easier when using translation spells.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, Tom chooses to unpack the smallest, prettiest luggage, “You take Divination?”

“Yes--I’m doing well, but I’m eager for next year, when we’ll be practicing and not just theorizing.”

“Didn’t think you were the type.”

She clears her throat, looking a little sheepish, “Ah. You’ve been speaking to The Buffoon again, haven’t you?”

“Guilty.”

Something like a smile, “He’s bettered our house’s opinion of me, for all it’s worth. But he talks too much.”

So much. He chuckles, “Was he your assigned guide then?”

“Hm? Oh, no, that was Acwellan.” [1]

“Hedwig?” He jests, but he knows better. Of course he does.

“Funny.” But she’s not laughing, “It was Dumbledore’s idea. I guess he saw we could have something in common?”

Tom contains his eagerness to know more, “Was he wrong?”

A pause, “...No.”

More. Say more. “...”

Neither of them continue the conversation.

Ximena takes to leafing through one of her textbooks and Tom does the same, propping his own book open wide and taking little annotations on the side of the page, occasionally peeking to see if she notices what he is doing. She does not. He does _not_ sulk. He focuses on his textbook instead. As he should. His studies will not be neglected. The playing field must be leveled. He won’t be playing catch up with the pure and half bloods for long. By the start of term, things will be different. Better. There _will_ be no more doubt surrounding his genius. His skill. He will be more than just a lucky prodigy quickly forgotten about when the learning curve evens everyone out.

The assigned readings for summer homework sounded trivial at first, and his suspicions were half-confirmed when his eyes skimmed over the opening paragraphs (these subjects were already breached by himself on his own time). The difficult part came with _practicing._ What kind of idiot made it law to forbid students from casting outside of school? How are they supposed to learn on just theory? How on Earth can anyone expect their skills to stay up to par over the summer like this? ‘ _The students who come from magic families, I’m afraid, have a bit of an advantage over the other half-bloods and muggleborns. More so if the families are prominent.’_ Dumbledore’s words echo in his memory. Despite knowing this information as fact, the only students Tom saw as truly utilizing this advantage were few. The rest did not apparently see fit to study harder or work at magic before coming to school. Well, either _that_ or they were really that talentless.

Tom thinks it’s a bit of both.

Coming to Hogwarts has been more than an eye opener to the shades of grey that his previously black and white life held hidden. Children who were given everything on a platter: finances, resources, reputation, education...They are not all that they made themselves out to be. Not even half of them. They’re not even _grateful_ for these gifts, for the silver spoon in their mouths, for their family name. _The world owes them, not the other way around._ At least his dirty orphanage held people who knew the value of these things. Of home. Money. Family. They had nothing, and knew what it was like to suddenly receive that nothing. It makes them-- _him--_ appreciate what little good they were able to grasp.

Even Hedwig, who is the exception, not the rule, chalks up her talent to blood and family, and nothing else. Haughty and brash, Tom knows he can make her grow complacent. Make her stop caring about top marks and besting _him._ _Oh, you don’t need your grades, not with Acwellan pinned to the end of your name. Why bother with being first in class? You’ll be first in society._ Laughable.Tom can hear her response in his head: ‘Stop talking nonsense, you stupid pillock, that might work on a Malfoy, but it won’t work on _me,_ now pass me the woodworm.’

A small snort escapes his otherwise neutral composure. Ximena doesn’t comment on it.

Composing himself, he tries to focus on the reading again: an introduction to charming objects to do simple tasks. Roll over. Fold in on itself. Resist water...Standard for second years, he had already started practicing before he left (managed to get a pebble to twitch once, and have his quil to swirl lazily in the air), though undoubtedly he would have gotten further if he had more time (and for him, it always comes down to time). It would have been better if his damn partner was more helpful as well. Will he share charms class with Ravenclaws again next year? He had forgotten to ask, and he wants to plan ahead to try and butter Alder into letting him pick his seat. Charms will be easy, as will Potions (even if he wasn’t allowed to choose his seat there, Slughorn would indubitably bend the rules for him ~~and Hedwig~~ ), but the real challenge will be Defence Against the Dark Arts. Merrythought has a strict alphabetical seating chart, despite allowing students to partner with whomever for practicals. His seatmate is so incompetent, that he feels like he practically _leaps_ into Nemesis’ arms when it’s time to partner up (on that note, maybe that’s why she’s been a little too friendly, he’s conditioned her somehow…)

“Do houses stay the same in regards to sharing classes?” His little voice breaks the silence so suddenly, it seems to almost startle Ximena. It’s not like the times she has forgotten he was there, thank Merlin, but she does look a little miffed at being pulled from her book. Ah.

“It depends--Some years there’s too many in one house for the classes to be halved fairly. They change it as needed after sorting.”

“So, it only changes for the first years?”

“Mm...Not exactly.” He can tell he’s hooked her because she’s lowered her book just the slightest bit, “You see...and this is something Dumbledore told me...Our professors watch us. Our interactions with the houses in our classes and at meal times. They pair houses up in certain classes that have a good history of working well together.”

“Like Hufflepuff and Slytherin in Herbology?”

“Yes!” There’s that quiet excitement again. It excites him as well. “But, sometimes students within a certain year will defy that history, and they’ll switch and move our classes around until we reach harmony.”

Efficient. Doesn’t sound like something Hogwarts would do at all.

“Has there been a case of mixing class years? First and second years together?”

The book lowers further, “I believe in those first few years, when the school was founded, that they were more relaxed with that sort of thing. They were still figuring things out, I suppose.”

“Nothing in more...modern times?”

“Oh, there’s electives with few enough enrollments to see to that.” Her fingers drum over the hardcover, “Mmmm...Medicinal Sorcery, Muggle Studies, Gobbledygook--”

_“What?”_

“--It’s Goblin language, Casting and Textiles, Midwifery--”

“No no, sorry, I mean, _Muggle Studies?_ ”

A blink, “Yes, of course.”

Tom’s face twists into something sour, “Why would anybody want to study _Muggles?_ ”

Ximena looks as if she’s not quite sure how to answer, “It’s natural to be curious about what you don’t know about.” She pivots the book back and forth towards her chest and away, “It’s mostly for students who’ll choose a career that involves high Muggle traffic--Or remedial classes for the students who are the loudest about their...prejudices.” She clears her throat, “There’s talk about making it a required class.”

Amazing.

“And what about the muggleborns? The half-bloods?” He can’t help it, he can hear the worry slip into his voice.

“Most of them will take the class for an easy pass.” Her tone is that of disapproval, “They’re in for a nasty shock--Muggle culture... _human_ culture isn’t all the same.”

“...It’s not a monolith.”

Her eyes are on him again, and he is pleased.

“Monolith.”

“Indivisible. Uniform. One.”

She nods, “Human culture is not a monolith.”

He’s want to disagree--Humans... _Muggles_ are filthy, selfish creatures. But he’ll keep that thought to himself. At least, that was the plan, but he’s so riled up. So impassioned. So goddamn bewildered that even in his safest of all places...Even in his haven, his sanctum, his asylum, he might be forced to be reminded of his life before. Of what he has to go back to term after term for the next six years of his life. To read and be preached about how ‘we must co-exist with Muggles’. He opens his mouth and is immediately interrupted by the train’s whistle, announcing their arrival. It is an ugly sound. Cursed. He can’t even remember months ago when it was a blessed one, broadcasting his coming to Hogwarts.

The change in wind is evident. “...My first year is over,” his gaze hardens as the train approaches the station, “it’s over and gone.”

“Was it all you wanted it to be?”

Maybe. Memories of the last few months flying through his thoughts; it seems to him that the year could have given him anything and he’d be completely happy with it. Anything is glorious compared to where he came from. “Yes.”

“Most feel that way--Especially after flying for the first time.”

Tom’s first flying lesson was interesting. The broom provided by the school didn’t seem to care much for him and instead much preferred to do whatever it wanted. If only he could just fly without a broom, that beautiful rush of wind and adrenaline was addicting.

“--I liked receiving my wand for the first time.”

“Yes, I hear it’s a very impactful moment.”

“You _hear?_ ” His fingers itch, he feels restless.

“Oh.” She’d spoken too much? What was that tone? “Right.”

“You didn’t buy your wand at Olivander’s?” He had an inkling, but no confirmation. Others’ wands don’t look like hers, but few and far inbetween have wands _as_ unique as hers. His partner in charms had one made of coral, of all things.

“No.” Was that shame in her voice? “I--”

The sharp whistle of the train cuts her off, and he feels like giving a loud exclamation of frustration, but is stopped by his composure. The whistle saved him once, and damned him another.

The happy chatterings of all the students on the train mock him. The eager faces of friends and family on the platform are the faces of a jeering crowd. The cold empty space left beside him as Ximena rises to grab her trunk serve as the last awful awful reminder that he is on the last leg of his trip. He is finally on his way back to Wool’s. For real.

When he says good-bye to Ximena on the platform, he looks about as vulnerable as a boy of twelve can. A few meters back, he can see a nun dressed in blue and white with a jade rosary, and he assumes she is here for his classmate. Tom resists the urge to set her on fire.

“We’ll see each other again.” He drinks in the words. They come as a surprise.  He knows they are true, but somehow it feels like a lie when they come out of her mouth.

“I know.” A little frown, “You won’t forget me, right?” A teasing, light jest. Hiding a very real concern.

“I can’t promise that.”

Tom doesn’t like that.

It is raining in London. This itself, is not at all noteworthy. Tom has seen many rainy days before this, and he will (regrettably) see many more after. The drops and streams that form on the glass of the taxi window are unremarkable. He races some drops against one another absentmindedly, only half paying attention to the grey world outside and the people in it. Their faces pass by in blurs, he’s unable to identify any real features, and after a while, he grows uncomfortable at the thought that maybe they were all staring at him.

He turns his head forward for the rest of the trip.

Surprising him is how _surprised_ he is that Wool’s has not changed in the slightest in his absence. A part of him has been hoping it had burned to the ground or was destroyed in a freak earthquake, but that wasn’t a part of the surprise. The surprise came to him in part because as he attended school, Wool’s began to feel more and more further away. A bad dream. An imaginary place. But standing here at these iron gates shows him that this place is as concrete as the blocks it was built with. It is not leaving anytime soon. It is not changing anytime soon.

Even his room is as he left it, everyone being too afraid to step inside it in his absence. A light layer of dust blankets over his bed and desk, and as he runs a finger along the later, he muses over his study spots back at Hogwarts. Will they too be dusty when he returns to them? Or will they be kept spotless by some sort of magic? Will house elves dust them off just before students are allowed to return?

He sets his trunk on his bed (a cloud of dust erupts and makes him cough) and sifts through his possessions: school books, letters, and the secondhand robes he obtained in Diagon Alley. He spends the entire afternoon organizing and settling back into the room and tidying up. The last thing he puts away at the bottom of his dresser, deep in the corner, is a small, flat, grey box. Then, he opens the pouch in which he has been keeping the bracelet, lays back on his bed (it creaks under his weight,) and holds it up in the fading glow of the sun.

A featherweight charm had been placed on it prior to leaving Hogwarts, but even now he can feel it wearing off--He knows he did it right, it was flawless actually. It should last weeks-- _months_ at a time. But now, hours after departing his home, the bracelet has fought back. It weighs as much as a can of beans now, he reckons. In a few more hours, it will weigh more than him.

It’s strange, if he holds it close, holds it right in his grasp and concentrates. Closes his eyes and shuts out all other thoughts, he can still sense Ximena’s magic on it. Flowing and dripping. It grows faint but remains strong. The light of a distant star. If he holds it right under his nose, the bracelet smells of mint and soap. _Clean._ Fresh. Meanwhile, his own trunk smells of mothballs and cotton. He’d have to see if there’s any scent charms to help out with that.

He does not leave his room until dinner.

Summer at Wool’s is unbearable. Now that he has had a taste of where he truly belongs, it makes the ugly walls of his prison even more horrible. There is only relief in having the other children go even more out of their way to avoid him. They look at him like someone come back from the grave. Good. He spends the rest of summer communicating with his classmates at Hogwarts.

Ximena does not send a single crow to Wool’s.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In case y'all didn't remember: Hedwig has an elder sister. See chapter 2, where she and Ximena duel.
> 
> Did I delay this chapter due to lack of reviews? Yes. I'm okay with this chapter, but I want to edit it down and rewrite it one day...
> 
> WHEW. Hope I made y'all feel bad for Tom there--I even had Lion feeling sad for him, and all I hear from her is how much she hates him, lmao.


	9. Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets his feelings hurt.

The summer offers ample enough distraction from his upperclassman’s silence. Granted, most of those distractions are his current terrible living conditions, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? Wrong. He damn well can and will. Finding loopholes in this damn underage magic restriction is at the top of his list, followed by multiple letters to and from his other, more attentive classmates. In the background of the other children playing or talking, he’s out trying to harness more of wandless magic, like he could before all this happened to him. He plays with his own magic, trying to feel a texture. A temperature. Anything. There’s varied success: Tom is now well aware of his own magic, but only just. On boring afternoons and sleepless nights, he can gently prick his skin with it (it resembles bird feet hopping all along him). Sadly, he has yet to manage to intimidate anyone with it. At least, not without losing his sense and temper. It’s a little to start, but it’s something. He reminds himself of where he started on the hard days: not just on this but also on other things like literacy (his reading comprehension and handwriting, for example, had been comparatively abysmal thanks to the orphanage’s shit education system. Thank heavens for libraries.)

Tom refuses to stay stagnant over the summer and fall behind. The problem is that Tom also refuses to forget that he’s being ignored. Allegedly. Perhaps something happened. Perhaps she found out. Or forgot him. Is he that forgettable? Is the time and energy and a...attention that he spent on her so easily thrown away?

If he  _could_  write first, he would. Unfortunately he has no owl of his own, and no means to get one. He has no guardian to take him to any public owlery, and absolutely no real money to spend on a decent one for himself anyways (those sickles need to be saved, dammit). He could borrow one of his classmates’ owls and use them to send to Ximena instead...Alas, that’s tricky for a multitude of reasons. _‘But my letters are all read by the Abbess. I can’t disguise my words...She already suspects something strange about this school.’_ Cursed woman. Tom hasn’t ever met her, and he already despises her. Would his letters be intercepted? Even if they weren’t, he can’t expect that any of his classmates’ owls would be able to make the trip to Ximena, and  _then_  come back for his reply to their owner and  _then_  fly over back home. Poor exhausted creatures, he’d be raising suspicion immediately.

Oh, he could be open about it. Ask Abbas or Nemesis for an owl to borrow in order to write to someone...Without a doubt, they would help him.

But then they would ask questions.

Is it too much to ask to keep Ximena all to himself? Surely not.

So he waits.

Everyday, he goes through the motions of his routine. He wakes, eats, plays by himself in a corner of the yard, studies his books until lunch, eats a miserable lunch, retreats to his room to read (or prepare for an adoption interview, depending on the day), fiddle with the charmed bracelet, and then sit down at dinner.

After dinner would depend entirely on whether the matron was feeling generous or not: sometimes she allowed the children and workers to gather in the main room and listen to her radio. The music and programs were a nice change of pace, but Tom likes the shows the best. The acting and suspense in every broadcast always has him on the edge on his seat for more...When he was younger, he wished he could meet the radio stars. Be their friends and go on their show. He wanted to show them his room.

But the closer September 1st comes, the more the radio talks of war.

His fellow orphans speak excitedly about it and, perhaps shamefully, so does he: none of them have any real concept of war. To them, war is a game to be played during a recess. With the old, feathered playing cards that have passed through many hands. The adults, on the other hand, speak lowly about it when they think the children aren’t listening. They are old enough to remember the last war. One of them lost their brother, another a husband, another a son. The groundskeeper of Wool’s, an older man with a heavy limp, was injured in Marne (the first and second battle.) He’s the one who worries the most, because when the broadcasts speak of Hitler, Tom sees his hands tremble.

He has to get out of here.

-

Tom stands in a field at Hogwarts, the same field that he and Ximena sat in together all those months ago. The blooming flora surrounding him are releasing thousands upon thousands of petals a second, converting the air around him into some bizzare floral blizzard. Though the wind is strong, it is not forceful. He is able to stride forward to the tree with ease.

There’s a few people around the tree, whose trunk is wide and strong. Roots and branches stretching out infinitely, twisting playfully. What attracts his attention, however, is that this magnificent tree has no leaves, bares no fruit. Instead, it holds something strange, something that he has to look at twice. Thrice. Cotton? Mist?

Ximena is one of the people around the tree, she reaches up at a hanging branch and plucks out bits of the soft, cloud-like substance. She places it in her bag, burlap, and continues, reaching high on her tip toes. To her right, he sees Hedwig, jumping up to do the same. Further, he sees Yami and his mentor. Nemesis and Lucretia. Professor Merrythought and Dumbledore.

He walks up to his upperclassman.

“What are you doing?”

When she turns to face him, there’s something off about her face, about her eyes. She’s dazed or tired. Hypnotized.

“ _Wool gathering._ ”

The witch continues to pick off the parts of the tree that look like Hedwig’s hair. The wind blows harder, but it only seems to affect him. He shields his face with his arms and cowers.

Tom’s clock reads 3:45 AM when he wakes up on Friday, September the first, 1939.

An hour later, the yells of the caretakers wake him up.

He rises from his bed, disoriented and still partly asleep, what are they yelling? His ears pick up the wails of one of the babies and the authoritative commands of the women who worked at Wool’s. He hears them speak to the older children, to take care of the little ones, to guide them and not let them out of their sight.

“Tom.”

Someone in the doorway, a new hire: a young woman still too new to know to be wary of him.

“Did something happen?” Sleep laces through his voice as he rubs his eyes and tries to smooth back his unruly hair.

“Tom, get dressed, take your mask.”

‘Where are we goin--“

“ _Now is not the time to ask questions, gather your needs and come outside._ ”

He is not one to be intimidated, especially by someone who hasn’t yet established themselves as an authority, yet something in the woman’s voice chills him. Something about the dream he had before waking changes his mind. Makes his heartbeat spike. He gets out of bed, barefooted against the cold floor, and does as he is told.

The night before, he had laid everything out, anxious for the day. His clothes and books and trunk lay neat and prim. His gasmask (old and used) lies in his wardrobe, its warped face hidden away from him.

All of Wool’s is aflame with noise. Rapid footsteps, confused children’s cries, and orders to stick together. He hates it. He hates this commotion, he cannot concentrate on what he’s doing. He messes up the buttons on his shirt for the tenth time before he loses patience and simply pulls a vest forcefully over it. Neatness be damned, he’ll just change on the Hogwarts Express--

His mind blanks. Wait--

This time, it is the matron who comes into his room, black dress sweeping her ankles. She grabs him by the upper arm with one hand and grabs his things with the other. In his hands, he has the gasmask and the bracelet, held tight. He protests, at first, and she pays him no mind. Her eyes are set ahead, fearful and uncertain. It is a look he has never seen on a person before so he closes his mouth and trots along as well as he can.

Outside, the world is dark. Awake. The children are arranged outside in lines by age, looking like little toy soldiers, wrapped in shotty coats and old hats. Each of them has a sorry excuse for a trunk: either a sack by any other name, or a worn out bag. Some of the kids his age or below are crying, while others just look tired and bemused. The older children, the ones closest to sixteen, look solemn. Angry.

What catches his eyes are the other children walking down London.  _Hundreds of them._  Some alone, some in flocks. Some with mothers, some with only their elder siblings. Some children wear fine clothes fit for nobles and the rich. Others wear plain travel clothes or just their pajamas, wrapped up in coats. They each carry their one piece of luggage and gasmask. It is then, that Tom understands.

“ _Where are we going?_ ” He asks the matron in a voice he hopes will convey just how  _not_  afraid he is.

“Euston Station[1].” She sets his trunk down beside him, eyes overlooking the crowd.

“ _All of us?_ ”

She looks at him, suddenly realizing what he means, “Tom...this is about getting you somewhere  _safe._ ”

“ _Hogwarts is safe!_ ” He yells, surprised by the volume of his own voice, “It’s out in the country, away from everything, I’ll be safe!”

For the first time since Tom has known the matron, she looks at him with sympathy. With pity, “ _I’m sorry, Tom--_ ”

No. He can’t believe this. Absolutely  _not._

The slack grip of the matron does not go unnoticed by him. He picks up his trunk, thanking his lucky stars that he had placed a featherweight charm on it weeks ago, snaps his arm away from her, and  _runs._

It’s easy for him to slip between children like a snake through grass, he’s so small and used to running away from others. People don’t concern themselves with some runaway, despite proclaiming to the plurals [2] to stick together. His little feet barely touch the ground, that’s how fast he feels; time is spent mostly in the air, searching for the way out. In all the collected chaos, he can still hear her screaming after him. As if she were truly concerned for his well being. Liar.

The route to Euston is memorized by now: he had done so in the weeks preceding his first day at Hogwarts. Every path, shortcut, alley, and street are mapped out in his brain like the layout of Wool’s itself. It will take him longer than a taxi, but goddammit, he will get there. Even now, as his breath hangs heavy and his heart is slamming up into his throat, and sweat is beginning to form and drip into his eyes, and the burning pins and needles prick at his feet and legs, and he’s just  _waiting_  to hear those horrific sirens, he will get. back. home.

By the time he reaches the blessed station, he has run so hard, his lungs feel about to explode, and there are pennies in his mouth. He forces himself to swallow the blood and keep going. There are crowds of children all around him, as far as the eye can see. Bumping into him, rubbing against his side, or accidentally making eye contact while searching for another. He feels lost in a sea of minnows, all staring out with wide, naive eyes, waiting to be devoured by sharks.

_(Behind him, a boy cries out for his mother. The mother cries back.)_

When he reaches Platform 9¾, he half falls, half pushes through in exhaustion.

Despite the early hour, the other side is as tense as the Muggle side.

Whistles and shouts command muggleborns and concerned parents to information stations. Many of the Muggle parents, and magical spouses of Muggles, are pleading at the station attendants-- _Why aren’t you helping? Why can’t we all leave early? Don’t you have other means of getting to the damn school?_

He moves away from the entrance to a wall off to the side in order to catch his breath. To settle his heart down and ease the throbbing in his head. His trunk, though light thanks to his magic, might as well be a thousand kilograms. When he slumps down on the ground, it hits hard, but makes no noise. Tom hits hard too, hurting his tailbone in the process. Head back, resting on the wall, he shuts his eyes and tries to breathe through his nose.

“ _The wards around us will protect us from any potential air raids._ ”

“ _But what about the poor people outside the platform?!_ ”

The Muggles. Yes, what will become of them? If the Germans come in and bomb London, they will be entirely at their mercy. If he hadn’t had ran, could he have…?

Tom shakes his head. Banishes the thought. He’s  _alive._  He’s safe. He is on his way to Hogwarts. He’s alive. He’s safe. He is on his way to Hogwarts. He’s alive. He’s safe. He is on his way to Hogwarts. He’s...

Another sharp whistle. More children rush through the portal.

He and the other students are allowed to board early. The children still too young to attend, or just not  _magical_  at all stare at their siblings in a strange mixture of envy, worry, and relief. Their parents bark, furious with the attendants.  _What do you mean my child can’t get on the train, bombs could drop on us at any minute!_

_We are not a shelter for children, we are a school._

Tom finds a compartment as fast as he can and locks it. Closes the blinds, curls up in the corner, covers his head, shuts his eyes so tight that there’s ringing in his ears, and rocks. Back and forth, back and forth. A steady rhythm. In control. One two. One two. One two. The floor below him is solid. It grounds him. Will he be able to hear the bombs drop from in here? The air raid sirens? The screams? Will no more people come through the portal because everyone is dead on the outside?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Chamberlain was supposed to have everything  _under control._  War is a distant dream. Distant nightmare. He’s not going to die he’s not going to die he’s not going to die. He is not going to be sent away far away to strange place in a strange house with strange people who might treat him as a servant or labor horse.

Deep breaths. He’s okay. Everything will be okay. There is no war. There will be no air raids today. He’ll be allowed to stay at Hogwarts this time. Dumbledore will agree: it’s too dangerous for the muggleborns. He will be returning to his home and staying there. Among his kind. He’s just overreacting. That’s it. That’s it.

He sleeps.

When he awakens from a dreamless sleep, his neck is sore and he’s calm. He notices the train is already moving.

At 11:02 AM, he is on the train to Hogwarts, safe and sound.

Tom composes himself. He’s a strong boy of 12, something like war and air raids should  _never_  affect him. Never. He can’t get scared. Only babies and littluns get scared.

The atmosphere outside the room is lukewarm. When he walks through the aisles and the cars, he can tell immediately which rooms are full of muggleborns and which ones are full of purebloods. The usual groups of students who have a healthy mix have separated for the day. The wildcards are half-bloods, who are either comforting and keeping with the muggleborns, or desperately trying to separate themselves from today by sitting with purebloods. This gives him pause: where will he go? Back to his compartment to be alone with his thoughts? Sitting among people who have gone through the same scare as he did this morning? Listening to their tearful retellings of being separated from their loving families? Painful. Sitting with purebloods and their mocking of the Muggles and their war and then complaining about their  _problems?_  Equally painful.

A tap that’s more like a slap on his shoulder, “You look like a right prat blocking the aisle and staring out into the horizon like that, you stupid git.”

“Hedwig.” Tom blinks at the small witch, half thankful it was her that found him and not someone else, “I was just thinking.” He begins to walk alongside her.

She looks unimpressed, “Yeah, I heard Muggle Britain had some sort of scare--All the mudbloods on the platform looked like they saw the Elf King himself.”

A note to remember later. What on earth is an Elf King? “It was a very eventful morning.” To say the least. He hesitates on saying just what was going on. What would she say?

“I’ll say. When we aparated at the platform, it was like arriving at the waiting room at Saint Mungo’s. Gaunt faces everywhere. Something about bombs? What are those, anyways?”

Is she... _Is she serious?_

“--Oh here’s my seat, come sit with us, you look like you need a distraction.” Hedwig slips into the roomette to their left, stopping him from giving a small lecture: how can one know the bombarda spell and  _not_ know what a bomb is? Has to be sarcasm. There’s no other way.

His hand rests on the edge of the sliding door, and just as he’s about to step in, a  _brush_ of coolness runs past his back. Familiar. Safe. Immediately, his head turns, searching, “Ximena!” It comes out more excited and  _needy_  than he had wanted, and he internally cringes at himself for sounding like some giddy boy. He almost downright chastises himself for actually reaching out and tucking at the passing witch’s robes. A plea for attention. For validation. Surely she too experienced this morning’s scare? Shares the fear of war and being separated from magic with him?

“--Yes?” A blink and a passing glance at the people inside the car compartment, “Can I help you?”

Tom mirrors her blink, “--You didn’t write to me all Summer.”

Genuine confusion in her eyes. Her brows furrow and raise in surprise and bemusement. “I--Oh.” Rapid blinking, “Oh.” Perhaps there is embarrassment, guilt, regret, or sympathy. That all comes second to the sheer, blatant forgetfulness in her stance, “Right. Sorry.” Her lips press together as she sits up a little bit straighter.

“Are you okay?”

Ximena looks as if she had awoken from a deep slumber. Emerged from kilometers underwater to the light of the surface after being encased in darkness for millennia. She does not remember. Not one bit.

“Umm, I...” On the spot, she looks like she wants to ball up and hide, “Yes. Fine. Thank you.” She rushes off down the car, escaping.

A whistle, “Riddle, when you’re done yearning eternally out there, we’re available.” Oh, right.

He drags his eyes away from the end of the train corridor to inside the space where Hedwig and company sit, keeping his composure and trying to make sense of what happened.  _What happened?_  Maybe someone had shot her directly with a confundus spell just seconds before encountering him? She looked tired, she was probably woken up far too early before it was proper in order to catch this train...She was still sleepy. Disconnected. The early evacuation in her city threw her off. Yes.

Fingers snap harshly in his face.

“You still in there with us, Tom?” Hedwig demands his attention, “Stop being a dunce and intro-bloody-duce yourself.”

There are times when he wants to praise Hedwig...Other times when he wants to trip her into a pit of sharp rocks…

He bows his head politely, the way a proper boy of good blood should, and states his name and house. The girls in the compartment do the same, all except one.

Hedwig’s sister is just as Tom remembers her from last year: slender and boxy, sporting a broken nose that Hedwig proudly takes credit for. Her straight, wheat colored hair is kept out of her boyish face with a black headband. Aside from her bright hazel eyes, she looks nothing like her younger sister.

“Eric Acwellan.” She does not offer her hand.

“We’ve met before.” Tom is determined to keep pleasant but on his toes, especially after that sucker punch Ximena delt to his psyche.

“Have we?” Eric tilts her head, smiling naturally in a way that tells him she was condescending him and that she wanted him to know it.

“Stop being a munter, Eric, we all know you have an ego the size of your nose.” Hedwig pats the space next to her, “Close the door, Tom, you’re letting my sister’s superior air out.”

Tom does as Hedwig says, ignoring the discomfort on the faces of Eric’s companions and the amusement on hers. Must never have experienced Hedwig this close.

Introducing himself to the sixth years is something strange. Two of them he has spoken with in the Slytherin common room, and the other he only knows as the older aunt of one of his classmates. They all, however, seem surprised that Eric had allowed him to sit in their compartment.  _She doesn’t trust men._  Did Hedwig tell him that?

“Happy to see you’re not keeping the company of Fawley anymore, Hedwig.” Eric begins, crossing her legs at the ankles.

“I’m not an idiot.” Hedwig crosses her arms, “She was getting annoying anyways,” A look towards Tom, “she has it bad for you, you know.” He does not. The surprise must have shown on his face, because Hedwig laughs at him, “Merlin, Tom! You could see it from the moon! Too distracted by Lane?”

“Don’t feel bad,” one of the girls, a Lestrange, speaks to him trying to sound comforting, “She’s pretty, sure, but that family won’t take you far.” A sad, albeit condescending look crosses her face, “The Fawleys are a lovely, proper group of Purebloods, yes, but they’re weak.” The other girls in Eric’s group nod their heads, “It’s a shame, really, I had hoped that she was the first in her family to be placed in Slytherin for a reason.”

Tom blinks--Nemesis is only twelve. Talented or rich or not, she still has time. Has she really been so easily tossed aside and forgotten?  _She’s a child. A child of proper background. If it can happen to her, can it happen to him?_

“What happened?” He asks.

“Her uncle resigned, didn’t you hear?” One of the other sixth year Slytherins, a Travers, says, leaning over, “Her whole family’s a bit of a target of ridicule right now. Try not to bring it up if you can help it.”

Amazing. All this talk about ostracizing a twelve year old girl because of something completely out of her control--Something that has nothing to do with her.

“Serves the lass fucking right for bragging about it and shoving her family’s status down everybody’s Merlin-damned throats like bloody sausage.” Always the sensitive one, Hedwig, “And serves  _him_  right for leading us all like fecking sheep to slaughter, what a gormless cock up! Acting as if everything’s sunshine and daisies while we have a bloody imperialist on the loose.”

“Now now, Hedwig, doesn’t Grindelwald’s ideal world match up with that of our family’s?” Eric’s smile is wicked.

“I didn’t fucking know a goal of that nonce was to give you a proper cock.” Hedwig sniffs, “Daddy will be so happy to finally have a boy.”

Eric can’t help herself--She laughs, it sounds like she’s on the verge of hiccuping. The other students in the car grow more uncomfortable. Tom is indifferent to the sisters’ babble, but is on edge about what was said about Grindelwald.  _Will the wizarding world be pulled into war too?_

“Well...Wouldn’t it be nice to not hide anymore?” One of the girls asks meekly, looking around the compartment at what she probably hopes will be agreeing faces, “Take the world as our own?”

“And do what with it, Dorea? Hunt Muggles like your deranged cousin campaigned for? Further divide up magic blood based on the amount of inbreeding one has and not skill? Set the punishment for being a squib as death?” Eric scolds, tsking her little head, “The most noble and ancient house seems to be lacking in teaching about politics.”

Dorea’s expression is a mix of embarrassment and anger, “I  _just_ meant--”

“We know what you meant.” Eric interrupts, “I admire your intentions, just as, I’m sure, we all do here,” The other girls and Hedwig nod in varying degrees of conviction. Tom mimics them. “But terrorizing half the magical world with such abhorrent and violent acts is...Unpleasant. As I’m sure your parents and other relatives have discussed.”

The girl halts in her anger, thinking over what the other has said, before nodding and settling back down. Tom marvels at Eric’s cool and concise control over the compartment. Over her friends (allies?) It’s attractive.

“Besides,” Eric continues, “some muggles are quite useful, I’ve found. Outside of being footstools, I mean.”

All of her friends have their mouths open in shock. Hedwig rolls her eyes and looks unimpressed.

“You--You mean you’ve  _seen_  a muggle up close before?”

“Is it true their skin is oily and sticky?”

“Oh you didn’t look them in the eyes, right?”

Tom is, to say the least, befuddled. What the hell did these girls think a muggle was other than a magicless human? Some kind of slimy troll? How have they never seen one?

“I’ve interacted with them on occasion...Pathetic creatures, really, but some of them  _are_  talented.” The gasps from the sixteen year old girls are unreal, “ _Those ones are usually the ones descended from squibs, of course._ ”

The girls nod, agreeing with her words. Tom looks to his right at Hedwig, who mouths “every fucking day, it’s like this” at him.

After the treat trolley passes the first time, Eric spends the rest of the train ride discussing her encounters in the muggle world. Of sneaking out and observing and studying. Of obliviate spells, toying, and near discoveries. It is a strange and fascinating train ride, to say the least. He is torn between correcting these highblood’s assumptions about muggles and simply shutting his mouth and nodding along. He doesn’t need to rock the boat. He just needs to find the captain and take their place.

“I think the worst, the absolute worst part of their  _culture_  are their photographs: they don’t move.”

“What?”

“Weird!”

“--Muggles have photographs?”

“Yes they do, you stupid chit, did they drop you on your damn head as a baby?”

Dorea looks highly offended and on the verge of an emotional outbreak. Amusing, but it makes Tom uncomfortable to look at her. He turns his attention to the world outside instead, lamenting at the light shower of rain that had just begun moments ago. Oh, he doesn’t let something as trivial as the weather dampen his mood, it’s just that he’d prefer to be able to see the outside scenery more clearly. It would help him see any oncoming planes.

Luckily, the train arrives with no trouble. No danger. It takes everything in him to not immediately speed off the train and platform. Instead, he composes himself and rises up alongside Hedwig, her sister and the rest, and calmly gets off the train. Dignified. Not at all like a firstie. He’s above all that. Yes. When the horseless carriages come for the students, he does not marvel at them like  _other_  second years do. He takes his amazement silently and climbs on, listening to others discuss how nicely the weather cleared up.

His homecoming is glorious and joyous. The moment his eyes take in the castle again, his arms are pure gooseskin. The September chill enters through his lungs as he breathes in that magical air and filters it through his heart and veins throughout his whole body. Nothing will ever beat that first perfect  _thrill_ he felt the first time, but the second time is...well, a close second. He was home. He was  _safe._

-

“A new student?”

“Two.”

“From where?”

“America. One of them’s an Indian! Oh, no, sorry Acarya, not that kind of Indian, I know--”

“They sure picked a shitty time to come over, do you think their parents will withdraw them now?”

“Not bloody likely, Hogwarts is the best education you can get.”

“Can you see them? Abbot’s damn hat is in the way.”

“Ya, he looks like a right tosser.”

“He’s American. That’s sexy.”

“It’s repugnant.”

“Do they have Quidditch in America?”

“Yeah, but they call it something else.”

The commotion attracts little attention from Tom until he hears how unusual it is to receive a student like this who was not going into their first year--It would be all the more unusual if they had arrived during the middle of the term, and obviously that is not the case. It has half his attention, but none of his care. The only alternative to listening in to others chit chat about the new non-first years at Hogwarts is listening to those who are old enough to reason what’s happening in the Muggle world right now.

“What do you think will happen to the German and Polish Beauxbatons students?”

“I can’t imagine they care--The students that is. I would have aparated out of there instantly the moment I realized what was happening.”

“Will the school close?”

“Maybe. Maybe this is the first of many foreigners coming into Hogwarts.”

“Great. More filth.”

“Oh Flint, don’t start up with that nonsense, Acarya will hear you and hex you again--”

The actions of Muggles are strong enough to make a grand school of sorcery close? To displace the lives of witches and wizards who surely have more power than any gun or tank or spray of mustard gas? Impossible.

He wishes he had more of that drink Ximena gave him on the train back in July. Actually, if he were going to be wishing for things, he might as well wish that she actually turn to  _look_  at him. She’s six chairs down, across the table, biting her fingernails. Is she nervous too? Does she hear the talk that the older Slytherins are spouting? Look at him, dammit.  ** _Look at him._**

Dippet rises from his seat, and Tom knows the first years are about to come in. He watches them curiously, wondering if he looked as small and frail as they did just the year before. The two older students are already at the front, side by side, not speaking, sticking out like posts in an empty field. It reminds Tom of the children who are left among the littluns during team picks for boxball--Because those are the ones picked last due to some kind of impairment rather than being too young to understand the game being played. These two students don’t look impaired, but they could be stupid. Only time will tell.

The sorting begins, and the hat sings his song. By now, the novelty has worn only a little off, and only because Tom finds the song annoying. Dumbledore calls up the first student--First years first, as is their right. The Sorting Hat divides them up surprisingly even between Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. In an odd turn of events, Slytherin gets the most. Useful additions to his house, one can hope.

Finally, it’s time for the two teenagers. The first name is called, the girl, and Tom pays little attention, as mildly curious as he is. Would she take longer to sort due to her age? Or are the hat’s all-seeing mind reading powers so good that it can look over everyone’s minds, regardless of development, and see which house they would do best in? He vaguely remembers his own conversation with the hat because it wasn’t a conversation so much as a brief touch with an all-seeing entity that immediately saw fit to place him in the best house.

At two minutes, the hat calls out Hufflepuff. Noted, will probably be forgotten. His housemates have had little to nothing to say about said house, good or bad. ‘They’ve got good heads on their shoulders, but warped priorities’ according to his guide from his first year (who, speaking of, is seated a few chairs down from him, commenting lewdly about the appearance of the newly sorted girl. Animal.)

The boy is called. Tom can’t register his name clearly, it feels like Dumbledore’s mumbling it...Last name is something with a Y perhaps. Are his ears ringing?

Hedwig, sitting immediately to his left, gestures with her chin, “My cousins on mum’s side wrote to me about him coming. Says he’s an annoyingly happy wizard dumb as a box of chocolate frogs.”

Gryffindor is called out triumphantly.

“Sorting Hat confirms it.” Tom comments, earning snickers and laughs from his housemates sitting around him. All derive humor from his words save for one.

Ximena stays gazing, lost in thought, straight at the new student.

-

His and the other second year boys’ new sleeping quarters aren’t much different from the ones last year. They enjoy one less flight of stairs to climb up in the mornings, and a nicer view of the Black Lake where the water was clearer (one can see the last bits of sunlight dripping from the surface). Tom’s bed is no longer oddly placed to the side of all the others, but rather collected alongside those of his yearmates. He sleeps next to Evan Rosier.

“What’s all this talk I hear about Muggles going to war?” he asks him the first night, laying on his right side, head on his palm.

A pause, “It’s not a war yet. And it’s not all Muggles. Just a few.”

“Hm. Think it’ll get bad?”

Tom calculates. Both members of House Rosier that he has had the displeasure of meeting have had very straightforward opinions of Muggles. Evan (from the current conversation and passing observations) seems a bit more level-headed.

“...We’ll see.”

“My mum said it looks like the Muggles will exterminate themselves. She looks forward to it, actually. Holding a bet with my dad about how long the war will last.”

How unpleasant, “Do they know what caused the conflict this morning?”

“Not at all. None of us do.”

When he tucks himself in that night, Tom dreams of sheep roaming Hogwarts.

The first day back is like sliding back into an old routine. A soldier coming home from war, perhaps. Or perhaps not, considering the current circumstances. September the 2nd is filled with a divided Hogwarts, with half the student body tense and the other as lackadaisical as usual. He spots clusters of them crowding together whispering, the tense half that is. Goldstein. Merkin.  _Kowalski._  Elle is not as bright as she was the day they spoke in the kitchens. Her eyes are red and tired. She and the others speak of withdrawing from school.

Saturday is turning out to be a slow day. Passing like a migraine. Against his stomach and good sense, lunch is skipped. The hall is lively and irritating where he usually sits, and morbid and dreary in the other areas. To be overstimulated or understimulated. Bad question. He just wants a clear mind.

He does not avoid lunch because he’s afraid of seeing Ximena. That is ridiculous.

Instead, he opts for a small study session. Books have always been a lovely distraction, even back at Wool’s when he could barely read, and all the material available was falling apart and full of mold. There is no war when you read through potions ingredients, mage history, or transfiguration charts. There’s no war. No war.

Hedwig joins him in his trek, speaking offhandedly about her Potions mentoring with Yami ( _It’s embarrassing to need help from her, but hell if she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, so fuck my pride, eh?)_ It’s fascinating to him that she could put aside her hubris like that (he had been thinking it impossible for purebloods to do so), not to mention people’s lack of teasing her about it (the lessons aren’t exactly a secret, he hears Mulciber and Lestrange gossip about it before bedtime occasionally). Yami is an exception, it seems. Not proof that blood traitors are just as skilled, but a mere exception.

“Is the only reason she’s...a blood traitor that she sympathizes with Muggles?”

Hedwig sniffs, “The details are a lot more complicated--Pureblood fucking politics are rarely as bared and simple as black and white, you see.”

Of all the things he thought he’d be learning at magic school,  _politics_  wasn’t even on the list. He wonders if he would have a better understanding of it all if he had skimmed through a few basic politics books before his first year, “Oh?”

“Here in Britain, most see her as a blood traitor, including me and my family. Willingly seeing Muggles as human is the dealbreaker for most.”

“So is it a checklist?”

“Of sorts. You can have feck all to do with Muggles n mudbloods, but still be a blood traitor if you, say, don’t follow the traditions laid out for your family and class. Things like oaths, marriages, religious obligations...Real ritual nonsense like that.” She cleans a bit of dirt from under her fingernail, “Back in Southern Asia, the Acaryas are the pinnacle of what proper purebloods should be. Expect it’s the same in Northern Africa as well.”

“Muggles are more accepted in those places?”

“Salazar no--They just use them as personal servants and nursemaids. Can you imagine? Having a Muggle bring up witch young? My mother would have a heart attack.”

“...Isn’t that violating the statue of secrecy?”

A snort, “Wizards don’t often follow the laws they help enact. ‘Sides, most of them are squibs or Muggles not in the know. Memory wiping is handy when they  _do_  see something, though.”

It doesn’t sound like a very happy existence, “Sounds miserable--Does that really classify her family as blood traitor?”

“Maybe if it were just  _that_  no, but the biggest offence is that they’re matriarchal. Women in charge, as I think it should be--Full offence, you men are all ponces.” He can’t really argue against that, though he knows he’s the exception, “Warlocks don’t like that. Damn sausage party is already angry at Missus Zabini’s campaign to gain a seat in parliament. Proper witches stay home to bear and raise proper magical children.”

_A witch in the Wizengamot?...That sounds like a dream, Riddle. A wonderful dream._

Dream indeed.

They start the descent down the moving stairs, “You’re alright with Acarya’s matriarchy, then?” What’s the damn problem.

“I am. But they don’t honor ancient blood rites or treaties. No long standing loyalty with that family. They’re as dangerous as a bogart in the dark. At least I can rely on a Black to look out for me thanks to old contracts--”

A voice is heard as an older student slips forcefully through he and his classmate, cutting her off, “Oop! ‘Cuse me, guys, gotta get over to  _DAH-DAH,_  haha.” The yankee accent, as thick as his hair, would hurt if Tom were more pretentious. Or elitist. Luckily that’s why he has Hedwig around.

“We’re at the top of the stairs, ya fuckin idjit! You could have pushed us over and splattered us on the ground like cake batter! Maybe take your head out of your ass before I shove my foot up it, stupid tosser!”

The American boy laughs, already meters away--Likely taking Hedwig’s scolding in stride, had he heard it.

A student a few feet away chuckles, “Honestly Acwellan, physical violence? Are you a witch or are you a Muggle?”

“Shut up you knob, don’t you have an asshole to go shove your nose into?”

Tom had forgotten how delightful it was to see bigger students cower at a small little girl. The older Gryffindor who commented on Hedwig’s speech slips away, cowarding.

“Afraid of heights, Hedwig?”

“Afraid of Americans, more like.” She sneers at the foreigner’s distant form, “Little git.”

Little is not an adjective that Tom would use for him, “I’m sure it was an accident. We’re both fine, right?”

Hedwig rolls her eyes, “ _Morgana_ , Tom, you’re too nice. How are you a Slytherin? Did the hat really make a mistake or something?”

“I hear Hufflepuffs and Slytherins are more alike than meets the eye.”

“Ya, and grass is green.” She snorts, turning a corner with him, “At least you’re not dead from the neck up: I’ve noticed you gathering up a little boy’s club.”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, now you’re going to try and claim that they’re all your best mates? I’m not daft, you know, you  _are_  in the best house for a reason, despite your shortcomings.”

“What else could they be?” _What sort of ambitions could a mere boy of twelve have?_

“An investment.” Sharp. “Insurance.”

This is why he speaks to Hedwig. Shame she’s not a boy.

 _“Oop! Sorry!”_  The distant yell of the transfer echos through the castle. Are his lungs that powerful or is he just close because he got lost on the way to DADA?

“ _God,_ I hate that stupid plonker. No fucking way his voice is like that, you know, it’s like hearing a terrible actor try to be American.” Hedwig is always full of critique.

Tom spares a thought at the new student, who was previously strutting around like a giddy labrador all over the moving staircases. He’s never knowingly interacted with any Americans, so it’s hard to say just  _how_  exaggerated the boy’s accent was. How long was he supposed to be staying here again? If his accent  _is_  fake, then maybe it’s some kind of prank or joke he’s trying to pull. He hears they have the strangest sense of humor across the pond, “You’ve met Americans before, then?”

“Mum and her side of the family.” Hedwig almost sounds personally offended, “Freak. He needs to stay away from me.”

“Never thought I’d see the day someone would get under your skin like this--Have you gotten soft over the summer?”

“Sod off, Tom.” Fair.

They part at the library entrance.

While his classmate goes for private tutoring (her relationship with Yami has considerably grown, it seems, but Tom can still see resentment in Hedwig’s face when she mentions it), Tom searches for distraction in the library. He finds his book fast enough (Westcar Papyrus) and finds himself a lone seat at one of the only clear tables in the library. Halfway through a story of finding a green jewel lost in a lake, he gets the very odd and very sudden urge to look up to his right.

His heart jumps up at the sight of her, sunlight streaming in through the window behind, creating a golden halo atop her dark hair and around her witch’s hat. She’s walking towards his table. Tom shuts his book to leave. He’s mad at her. Or upset. Or distressed. Or all three wrapped up in one. How could she forget? They had spent  _months_  together. Hours in each other’s company, silent or speaking. Memory problems be damned, there has to be some sort of  _damn_  curse on her--

The weight in his pocket grows heavier, as if reading his mind.

Fuck.

The sound of wood scraping against wood, Ximena has sat down before he could make a dramatic escape. Before he has time to think over what his almost revelation was implying.

She sits across from him, to his left, with a heavy book, just as she did the first time they spoke to each other. Her face up close is much the same, but not. The previous curves of baby fat on her face are slowly waning away into sharp, angular cheeks and jawline. It’s...nice.

His head whirls back to his book so fast, he swears he felt whiplash.  _No_ , he is ignoring her. He’s  _mad._  His still little fists tighten and tremble with emotion--He can’t even properly ignore her because she does not notice him. She never does. Never wi--

“ _There you are._ ”

Her head, and his, switch upward, searching for the owner of the voice, lightly baritone and sweet. Happy.

A tall, slender framed teenager is walking towards  ~~their~~  his table. Bright faced and boyishly charming in every sense of the word. He is at Ximena’s side in an instant, leaning close with a hand on the back of her chair (close to her shoulder) and another on the desk (close to her hand.) Yankee accent as thick as his hair.

“Jesum crow, you walk fast for such a little lady.” He’s acting as if he had ran here, but he’s not out of breath, “You dropped your book on one of those damn staircases, I almost broke my neck returning it!” He laughs, as if his near death were a joke, reaching into his robe pocket and pulling out a small paperback to hand to Ximena.

“O-Oh.” He is much too close to her, he can tell, “Thank you, um.”

“You know, you really should pay more attention, I was yelling and whooping n’ hollering after you. Head in the clouds?”

“--Something like that.” Her fingers wrap around the book protectively, using it as a divider between herself and the American.

“Figured. Got that look in your eye, y’know?” Finally he retreats, moves back, “See ya around.”

“Good-bye.” Her voice is quiet. Her eyes stay lingering on his figure as he walks away.

Tom clears his throat.

Black pools on him.

“-- _Oh._ ” There was that tone again, “Oh, I--” She drops her book (again) on the table, and sets her hands down, “I--I’m sorry.” The phrase is new and fresh. It brushes up against his bruised feelings, “I’m just...Hello.” Scatterbrained. She’s gathering her thoughts, “...This summer was terrible.”

He can relate, “You forgot me.”

“I didn’t, I just...You slipped my mind. I misplaced you.” Misplaced. He likes that word better than forgotten. It implies he has a spot in her mind. In her heart. “I...It’s hard to explain.” Her eyes go to the people surrounding them. Lack of privacy?

He doesn’t know what he sees in her eyes, but he likes it. It’s the only semblance of power he holds over her. Guilt? Nevermind that she holds something heavier over his own head.

“...We’ll talk about it later?”

A sigh of relief, “Yes. Later is good.”

Tom is most definitely  _not_  elated at this. He is not joyous that they are speaking again and that she did  _not_  forget him. His shoulders loosen up. Tries not to look vulnerable, though it would surely only aid him.

He changes the subject.

“...What do you think of the American?”

“Which one?”

“ _The one you just talked to_.”

Caught off guard “--He’s interesting.”

Tom crosses his ankles, “Interesting?”

“Oh you know. Different.”

To him, he looks about as ordinary as every other background student at Hogwarts. Ximena hums lightly and nods. Her presence is calming, he forgot what a good effect it has on him. Tom continues, “It’s hard to talk to him, I hear. Has a lot of students crowding around him just wanting to hear his accent. Might not get a chance to learn his name, it seems.”

“Oh I actually met him this morning at breakfast.”

_Well,_

“He sat down next to me and we talked the whole morning--I actually missed my Ancient Runes class.”

_Well well,_

“I, um, I think he’s very sweet. I’m going to watch him try out for Quidditch this week.”

_Well well well,_

Tom clears his throat, straightening up, “I see. What’s his name again?”

“Adam.” Her response is so quick, he swears it almost knocks him off his seat.

“His  _family_  name,”

“Oh, Miller.”

“Muggleborn?”

“Yes.”

It’s not exactly news that Ximena is alright with muggleborns, but it does hurt his reputation if he’s seen being close with her while she willingly associates with them. He’ll have to see what he can do about that, “I’m glad he’s nice. Don’t need any more arrogant lions.”

An amused exhale as she slips a snack from out of her bag (bread, if his nose is correct), “That’s funny.”

He’s glad he’s funny, “What is?”

“That you say that...We were talking about it earlier: He said he was very confused at how seriously everyone here takes their houses. Apparently Ilvermorny treats them as little more than sports teams. He’s enthused about breaking through all the house barriers here.” Her knuckles press up against her cheek and chin, “He wants to change it”

“...”

“I heard about what happened last year with Lucretia. I’m not sure where she found the courage, but...I really think she’s started something big. Something wonderful.” Her thumb rubs the side of her index finger, “All the houses speaking together and mixing. Perfect harmony.”

“...”

“I don’t know, it would be nice. To speak openly and often to others outside my house. Him especially. I like him. I don’t think I would have been so alright with our talk if it wasn’t for Lucretia.”

“...What do you like about him?”

“It’s...nice to not feel like the only one who doesn’t belong, you understand?” She rips off a chunk of the hot bread she snuck in the library, “I feel alike to him. It feels good to be seen with some kind of familiarity. Some kind of memory. As a person. Not a novelty.” Her eyes return to Tom, “I remind him of a neighbor he had back home.”

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

A pause, “No.” Another pause, “Maybe.”

“Maybe…?” He tries to lead.

“He feels like a memory of a memory. Of a dream.” Her lips press together a tad before she bites into the bread, “...Like I met him once, in a previous life.”

“You believe in that stuff?” His tone is not condescending.

“Something like that.” A well known phrase, “Extraordinary claims demand extraordinary evidence [3], right?”

Right.

-

On September the 3rd, England is at war.

Tom had been hoping to leave that nonsense behind him. That it wouldn’t come following him into his sanctuary. Ink should not bleed into stone. Blood should not bleed into stone. But it has. It’s seeped in like tea in water, dying the air around him  _red._

He had heard the news early in the morning, on his way to lunch. And curse curse  _curse_  his stupid curiosity and need to know everything that’s happening around him, because he ceased on his path for the sole purpose of checking out why the goddamn was Chamberlain’s voice ringing through the halls. Stopped in front of a classroom, he peeked in and saw a large number of students all gathered around the oldest radio he’s ever seen. Walking in was natural, of course, he had to figure out what was going on. And as he did, more of the classroom made sense to him: the maps on the walls, the movie posters, the modern gadgets....So this was the Muggle Studies class? Quaint.

More students had flooded in behind him, pushing him forward towards his prime minister’s voice.

_“...I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany...”_

His heart leaped into his throat. It remains to this hour.

The rest of the day passes not like a migraine, but like a fish swimming through mud. Slow and thick. Like a dream.

He’ll...He’ll be able to stay at Hogwarts now. Safe from the bombs. The air raids. The panic. The death. For as long as this war rages on, he will be safe. Here. Home.

This, he repeats to himself. Through every class. Every hour. Every spare moment he has. If he says it enough,  _it will come true._

For a moment, he considers thanking a God or two. Thanking Merlin? That’s what the others do, right? Witches don’t have Gods, they have each other. They have their magic.

Tom can work with that.

His train of asking, reassurance, comes to a halt as he enters the Great Hall for dinner. Another day (another hour?), another crowd.

A happening is occuring again. At the far left side of the hall, where the Gryffindors sit, is a cluster of students of all years, all houses, all blood. He worms his way to the front and is only partly surprised when (of course) the source of the commotion is the new boy himself (Ximena standing right near him) fiddling with...Is that a... _Is that a gramophone?_

 _“What is that?”_ Druella sounds horrified, not just at the prospect of a Muggleborn being anywhere  _near_  her, but also at the contraption that said Muggleborn brought out.

“A phonograph, hon.” If the Yank can hear the condescension in her voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it, “You use it to play music.”

“That thing is an instrument?” A Gryffindor prompts looking at the device as if it were to explode.

He laughs, melodic and short, “I guess it does look like a horn, doesn’t it? But no, no it’s not an instrument.”

“Did you get Headmaster Dippet’s permission to bring this in the school?”

“I didn’t think phonographs were bonafide illegal contraband in this here country.”

Well no, but if his classmates’ stories ring true, then bringing in something as Muggle and electric as  _that_  would make Druella’s worry justified.

A Hufflepuff speaks up, “My mum has one of those! It’s like a radio!”

Something like understanding filters through the hall.

“Are we going to listen to a broadcast?”

“Is it on the Muggle war?”

“How strong is your owl to have carried that all the way here?”

Adam chuckles at all the questions, “Y’all here are as fascinated by this thing as my grandfather was--And that’s saying something.” He tinkers with the inside a bit, Tom can hear clinks, “You all need to learn how to have fun.”

“-- _Fun?_ ”

Similar exclamations shoot up in the small crowd.

“Yeah. Fun, you eggheads.” A spark. In the device and in his eyes, “You’re not as behind on the grind as Ilvermorny, thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but at least  _half_ of you need to let loose. Blow your wig a little.”

An uncomfortable silence on behalf of the Muggleborns and half-bloods, but Tom  _knows_  he’s talking about the uppity highbloods who are currently torn between jeering more at him or curiously watching. It almost makes him sneer to see that it was the purebloods who were gathered the closest to the commotion. According to his docent (well, former docent, really, he has no need of a guide in his second year but--), radios were still new and rare in magical households. Resistant to change, most purebloods stuck to live music and physical newspapers (nevermind that there were still complaints about using  _photographs_  in said papers).

“How are you going to get that thing to  _work?_ ” Ignatius prompts, standing next to Lucretia.

“Magic!” Boisterous laughter. Hilarious.

A squeak. The flat disk on the device moves. The hall jumps and gasps collectively, even on the side of the few lucky enough to have witnessed how one of these actually worked (the matron had one, once, before a trio of older boys broke it when Tom was six. His only memory of it working was listening to  _Turandot_  one winter afternoon)

“Aha!” He sits up, triumphant.

“--Is that it?”

He holds a finger up, and Tom finds himself envious and impressed at how well and long he can capture people’s attention, “Wait.”

His hand guides the needle over the wax record at a speed that makes the entire hall still. The needle drops.

Thump. A few precious seconds of silence. Sand spilling gently onto the floor. Low bass. Easy, lackadaisical plucking. Brass in harmony. Music. The sound rips through the student body like a knife through paper, shocking his classmates as if they had been dipped in ice water. Melody light and airy, it is vaguely familiar. A sound he has only heard in passing. On walks past barbershops and slums and flats where young people live. Tom finds he does not dislike it.

“Wh- _What on earth is this?_ ” Druella’s shrill voice sounds almost afraid of a little noise.

He’s sure that the Yank’s smile is going to make him famous one day, “ _Jazz._ ”

Abraxas Malfoy, a seventh year Tom hasn’t had the pleasure of speaking to personally, steps forward, “Is this what... _Muggles_  listen to?”

“All the snazzy ones yeah. It’s pretty big with wizards back home too. Some prefer swing, but that’s a little wet for me.”

“... _Swinging?_ ” That’s Nemesis’ voice.

The smile widens, “Oh boy, am I gonna have a juicy time with you all.”

There’s little more conversation after that. The music catches the attention of passing ghosts, who linger and tilt their heads at the strange new sound. Purebloods and sheltered half-bloods slowly find themselves tapping, bopping, swaying to the beat. It’s infectious, this jazz. He spots the other transfer, the girl, towering over a few of her housemates, staring at the commotion with a mix of wonder and amusement. A few Muggleborns have taken to actually  _dancing_ , clearing up a small space to jerk and twerk their legs out and about, causing more than a few exclamations from the purebloods.

 _“What are they doing?”_ He hears Abbas and Weasley ask, both in entirely different tones.

“They’re dancing, you ponces.”

“... _Together? Just them?_ ” Again, said by more than one wizard. In entirely different ways. Scandalized. Fascinated. Horrified. Curious. It confuses Tom until he remembers last year’s Hallowe’en: witches dance in circles. In groups. Hand in hand, switching partners, distance kept, one long dance. He didn’t find it strange at the time, it was a holiday. It was probably just some kind of tradition. Just like everything else.

“It’s like watching gorillas doing a mating dance.” Evan comments beside him, “How fun.”

The Muggleborns pay the whispers and comments no mind. They are entirely in their environment now, with the music many of them grew up listening to in their households. Many of them are quite skilled in their dancing: they move and turn with such expertise that it feels like they’ve been doing it since forever. It makes him want to try too.

“You wanna dance?”

Tom’s head turns in time to properly see Ximena sputtering at the Yank’s invitation. A quick denial, red dusting on her cheeks, just barely appearing on her brown skin. The girl next to her, the Muggleborn Ravenclaw from that Charms class once upon a time, slips in instead, hand extending to grasp Adam’s, “Show me what you got, Yank.”

More laughter, “Alright Martha, let’s go.”

First name basis? How uncouth. He’s been here for a day and a half.

The two move loosely but in sync with each other. Buzzing bees whose feet prick and sting at the ground below them, preferring to stay in air. In movement. Ms. Baker is not a bad dancer, and Adam--He’s rather phenomenal. Tom looks at him and he sees that Jazz itself is in his soul. His skin.

Eyes to Ximena again.

She’s relieved, he can tell. Attention like the kind Adam and Martha are receiving is the opposite of what she wants (but perhaps exactly what she needs). When she looks at the two together, there’s a certain wistfulness there. Nostalgia. A ghost of a smile. Amusement. She hugs her book to her chest tighter. Yearning?

Does she wish to dance too?

By the time the song ends, and the record is flipped, there are something like dance lessons happening. The easier-going magicians from magical families are trotting along like clumsy horses to the instructions of Adam and other Muggleborns and half-bloods. The Blacks, Yaxleys, Rosiers, and the rest openly (loudly) hate it but they do not leave. They stay and watch. Watch and learn too, as they leer.

They miss the king’s speech to the nation. Thankfully.

-

Dippet makes no move to console any of the students. There’s no talk or explanation as to what’s going on with the war. Undoubtedly, there’s questions, from both staff and students alike, but no word is given. And really, isn’t this just confirming what others here have taught him about magical authority? The Muggles’ business is their own. We’re not involved. Neutral. Only Muggle Britain is at war with Muggle Germany.

Disgusting. Understandable. Still disgusting.

The closest thing to comfort is given by Dumbledore, of all people, at the end of his next class (and to all his classes, Tom assumes). Though he speaks vaguely about the transpiring events, it is direct. It is to all the people within the classroom. Help will be given if asked.

Liar.

He’s the first to leave the classroom in a huff. If he stays any longer, he’s liable to try and hex his professor.

“Tom!  _Tom!_ ” Nemesis. He turns, easing up the scowl on his face, “Oh goodness, you walk fast, in a hurry?”

“--Yes.” In a hurry to leave.

“Going to see Lane?”

That...might actually alleviate his mood. Her voice, he’s found, eases headaches. Her explanation for her behavior over the summer is bound to be interesting as well, he hasn’t had time to meet with her or memorize her new schedule.

“Do I look lovesick to you?” He jokes, flashing a smile at her. He remembers what Hedwig told him about her. He wonders if it’s true. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was, it would be useful, actually.

“I wouldn’t know, I have no frame of reference.” She clears her throat, “Your free period is next, correct? Might you please go over some charts with me for Astronomy?”

He’d actually be alright with that. Charts are lovely. He might be able to see just what the hell was the big deal with her family’s so called downfall. If the minister for magic was an idiot, why did that bleed into the rest of his family's faults?

The two of them walk side by side to the library, deep in the tallest sections, for their publically available star charts. From this high up, the students down below look like little beetles with a singular horn or tusk (their required hats, of course). The migrating books’ flight paths are well below his and Nemesis’ position.

“Never been up in this section, have you?”

He looks back from his leaning position over the smooth banister: the fading sun sprinkling in through the glass dome atop the both of them, “I’ve yet to clear the first floor, actually.”

She pulls out a large flat drawer with graphs and maps, sifting through them for the right chart, “That’s pretty ambitious. Most just jump and pick which areas to go to.”

He’s not like most.

“I found it, come here--I think I saw a table nearby...”

The small, oak table that she had spotted is taken. Oh, it’s big enough for all four of them, but well.

“ _What do you mean Muggles have technology that could harm wizardkind?_ ” Druella.

“I wasn’t aware that you grew deaf over the summer, did you spend all your time with Black’s tongue in your ear?” Yami.

Druella might as well be a steam engine with that look on her face. Nemesis looks ready to try and find another place, but Tom’s curiosity is more important than her discomfort with confrontation. It’s been a while since he’s spoken with Yami, regardless.

“Debating outside of Model Wizengamot?” His tone is teasing, but everyone can tell that he’s trying to placate the two witches (if they’re being honest, the only one needing placating was Druella).

“ _Stay out of this, Riddle--_ ”

“Ah, Riddle. Fawley. Sit.”

Yami commands the table as the eldest and the one with most composure. Nemesis does not deny her senior’s request, and she chooses a spot besides Druella who looks irritated that she chose that spot. Tom plops down beside Yami: it's not often she extends an invitation like this to him.

“You should be nicer to the underclassmen, Rosier, don’t you want to make prefect someday?”

“You shut your dirty bloodtraitor mouth, Acarya--”

A sharp turn of her neck, Yami’s gold jewelry jingles, her eyes narrow at Druella, “Do I have to call your brother here? I’m sure he’d be proud of your words and  _very_ interested to know what you were up to this summer.”

The red in Druella’s face drains, making her milk white like the glass ball Tom had found in DADA last year. The impossible is done. She’s shut up.

The fifth year speaks to him and his yearmate, “Do you think the war will affect us here at Hogwarts?”

Slytherins are not usually so direct. How off putting.

“G-Grindelwald is so far away--”

“No. The Muggle war. Not Grindelwald.”

Nemesis swallows. She’s walking on cracked ice.

“I...I don’t know enough about that situation.” A safe answer, “What’s the name of Muggle Germany’s leader again? Herr Hitler? He seems...powerful.”

Druella snorts.

It’s Tom’s turn to speak now.

“It will affect many of the students. It’s impossible to hide from war.”

It is the answer Yami is looking for, if her face is anything to go by.

But Druella disagrees. Disagrees so clearly, that she reaches out to a passing student, browsing through atlases:

“You, Indian girl--”

The transfer, the girl, turns around with eyes ablaze. Her brows raise a little at the sight of their group, or rather, at the sight of Druella.

“Hon, if you call me Indian one more time, I’m going to have to cut your pretty little droopy face off.” She gives a cloying smile, “ _I have a name._   _Use it._ ”

Druella snaps her mouth shut. Yami appears amused. Nemesis plays with her hands. Tom watches carefully, alert.

“Oh now, don’t let your friend’s rude little mouth ruin the party.” She opens outstretched hands as she leans over the back of a chair, “As for you two, I’m Mali.” When she says her name, it almost sounds like  _Mary,_ “Or are you also stuck on calling strangers by their last names?”

“It’s, it’s just a form of respect.” Nemesis feels nervous around this girl. How interesting.

“Ah. How cute. Stick to Mali, please.”

His yearmate clears her throat, “Nemesis Fawley.”

His cue, “Tom Riddle.”

“Pleasure. What are y’all doing on this fine afternoon?”

“Just some studying. Some friendly debating.” Nemesis says, fiddling with her fingers nervously, hoping the tension in the air would disperse, “You’re the new American right? The calm one, not the uh,  _other_  one. We’re not fond of him.”

“Oh Adam? Yeah, I can see why. He’s amusing. Kind of stupid, though.”

“Most mudbloods are,” Druella purses her lips, trying to recover. Tom can see Yami roll her eyes. “But was he this much trouble back at Ilvermorny?”

“Oh I’m not from Ilvermorny.” Mali corrects.

“Wait, what do you  _mean_  you’re not from Ilvermorny?”

“I mean I’m not from Ilvermorny.” Mali repeats, looking like a cross between amused and annoyed, “You didn’t think it was the only magical school in North America, did you?”

“The United Kingdom and Northern Ireland only has one school.” Nemesis states, confused.

A little roll of the eyes, “Your whole countries  _combined_ are smaller than the size of Texas. It makes sense for there to only be one for all of you. Your population is what...forty million? US is one-thirty.” Mali clicks her tongue, “Besides, I’m not allowed there.”

Yami’s face has a look that says  _I knew it._  Druella blinks away her confusion, “But some of Ilvermorny’s first students were Indi--You’re a pureblooded witch,  _why wouldn’t they allow you in?_ ”

Mali looks at Druella as if she were looking at a toddler too stupid to understand how their own legs worked, “Times change. I’m not wanted there thanks to good old MACUSA. Adam’s only allowed in because his mother’s some scion of a powerful family...Actually, as I understand it, MACUSA is working to keep girls out now.”

Druella blinks, taken aback. Nemesis is staring down at her hands on the table.

“Don’t look so surprised, it happened to Hogwarts too, briefly.” At her words, Tom looks to Yami for confirmation, as do the rest in the group.

“During the Muggle Hundred Years War.” She recites, “There was a small span of such chaos and confusion that the headmaster at the time thought it best to only accept young men into Hogwarts so as to help protect Scotland and the school. It was only about seven years, but it happened, nonetheless.”

A sneer comes onto Druella’s face at being upstaged by Yami on intelligence. Yami ignores this.

“I like you,” Mali declares, smiling, “I didn’t have a chance to to talk with you in Alchemy earlier. Acarya? I know your sister.”

Yami visibly tenses.

“Her name’s Yama, yeah? Heh, not too original there with names.” It was a purposeful tease, “But of course, I’m sure it means something better in your language.”

“Get to the point.”

Tom’s eyes move from one witch to the other, wondering what was going on.

“I’ll get to it later--When the kids are away.” A wink. She takes her leave.

Yami sits and waits for a few seconds. Then stands up straight from her chair, almost throwing it down from the sheer speed at which she rose, gathers her books, and follows behind furiously.

“-- _Did she just call us kids?_ ” Druella squeals out, huffing, “How  _dare_  she, that-that absolute savag-- _OW!_ ”

Tom flinches. Druella’s nose is broken again. Did he do that? Must have been concentrating hard on it--Or maybe it was just luck (he wasn’t feeling particularly angry at her). Perhaps Ximena is hiding somewhere nearby?

Nemesis comforts Druella and escorts her to the hospital wing. She tells Tom she’ll see him later.

He’s left alone in the library.

He frowns,  _what the hell was that?_

More and more, Tom becomes convinced that it’s impossible to be aware, to be knowing of everything that happens around him. He breaches a border of knowledge, only to be faced with ten more to break through. What’s worth knowing? Something that might end up being meaningless gossip? Should he narrow down his thirst for knowing to only a small niche like some kind of Ravenclaw?

Mali...He’s never spoken with her before this. Seems more composed than the other American. Too malicious to be a Hufflepuff, if that tone that she spoke with Yami was, in fact, malicious. What else could it be? For what reason does someone dangle information like that if not for blackmail? For bait (bait which Yami readily took, he’s never seen her in such a state)?

Hedwig had once called Yami radical...Brought up by non-magic blood. Nursed, clothed, and watched over by some Muggle. Or some poor son-of-a-bitch not magical enough to be considered a witch. Is that so radical? So lenient towards Muggles as others want to think? Leaving them to labor instead of killing them actively? If he’s not mistaken, that was the sort of talk that Abbas and Topaz were spouting only a few months ago...Talk that even Ian Rosier was willingly (conditionally) open to...Something’s amiss...

Tom takes his thoughts for a walk, placing back the unused star charts and meandering out of the library towards the front courtyard. Letters aren’t enough to keep in the know over the summer and winter holidays: there’s so many nuances missed simply because he’s not there in person to witness it. How would someone tell him about what happened in the library in ink and paper? ‘Rosier and Acarya arguing. Nemesis tries to quell. Rosier brings female Yank into it and gets a nasty slap of reality. Female Yank baits Acarya successfully and Rosier gets her nose broken.’ Terrible. He’ll have to pull at Hogwart’s gossip mill to pick what’s true and what’s nonsense--Or hire his own little spies to gather information.

When Tom reaches the main courtyard, he stands still, eyes forward and focused intensely on the single figure out before him, a few meters ahead. Though she is bulked up, back to him, little more than a silhouette, he can recognise his senior. He could find her in the dark or pick her out of a crowd of millions. Strange.

Seconds pass. A minute. Two minutes. Neither of them move.

He steps forward.

A crow rests on her bare finger (isn’t she cold?), happily accepting her little scritches and pets. If his mind isn’t paying tricks on him, she’s speaking lowly to it. Little coos and praises? Or telling secrets?

“Good afternoon, Ximena.” He’s snuck up on her again, he can tell by her little jump.

The crow flies away.

“Oh, hello.” Her throat clears, “I thought that was you.”

Blink, “I didn’t surprise you?”

“No, ah, you did.” Evidently, “Subconsciously, I mean: I sensed your magic.”

It’s oddly satisfying that she could recognise his magic signature, “Really? From how far?”

“Ahum...Hard to say...Maybe a few meters back?”

Did she know how long he was standing there just watching her? “Is that normal?”

“For me, it is.”

Noted.

“I’ve been practicing sensing magic myself!”

“What have you found out?”

Much. But not enough, never enough, “You don’t need physical contact to feel magic, but it helps tremendously.”

“And to see colors?”

“--I haven’t gotten that far yet”

“It’s nothing to be upset about.” He begs to differ.

“I feel left behind.”

Something like helplessness shows on her face, like she wants to comfort him, “I understand. I do. I--” A press of her lips, “Those things that purebloods take for granted. The skills and knowledge...It’s awful.”

It is. It’s bad enough to be shunned out of your heritage for the first 11 years of your life, but to then have it be used against you? When you’re already so much more skilled than those who were raised with it? Unbearable.

“I knew you’d understand.”

The helplessness stays, but her concern is replaced with a bittersweet smile, “I wish I didn’t,” and then, “I wish you didn’t either.”

He feels warm.

‘--I noticed your resting magic...I mean, I didn’t notice it, is what I want to say.”

She nods, “I always try and hide it. To help go unnoticed.”

Always hiding. She never changes, “I see. Can I show my control?”

Eager. He’s too eager. She nods again, “Please.”

Tom can’t sit still. He brings his hands out of his robe pockets and out of his gloves (the cold wind immediately makes him want to dig them back into said pockets), and flexes his fingers. Flexes his magic.

He feels tingling at first, starting in his chest and shimmering outwards to the tips of his hands. He’s not sure what it feels like, but it’s good. Comfortable. What color did she say it was? Black? Is this what black feels like?

Her palms come up from under his own outstretched hands, but they do not touch skin. His magic palpitates anyways. Hers reaches out and touches his.

A rush of joy to his head makes him dizzy as if it were blood. He remembers her magic as if it were hours that he last felt it. He wants to grow familiar with it. As if he had grown up around it. Spends everyday around it. It’s something to look forward to. To aspire to.

He wants to dip into it like stepping into a pool, but he doesn’t. She’s only doing this because she feels guilty, and he hates that, but he’ll take it. Take it but he won’t push his luck. Instead, he forces his magic to stay still. To stay skimming the surface of hers like a lily pad over a pond. Barely touching. It’s hard. Temptation is dangling right in front of his eyes but what would he have to win? A few moments of curiosity satiated? And what would he lose? What little trust he has from her?

Damn.

“Your control is amazing.” Her compliment swells his pride, “You did all this in just a few months?” Of course he did. Only he could do it. “You’ll be a maester of control in no time.”

He knows. But he still likes hearing it from her.

“Hey, ‘Mena!”

Water recedes. Her hands lower. His hands feel the September chill again.

Adam’s voice is extremely recognizable at this point, and just as irritating.  _Mena?_  Too familiar. He’s barely known her for a  _week._  Tom waited at least a month to try using her first name. “See, Hedwig, told you I’d find her--”

Tom blinks at the smaller witch, more than dwarfed by the tall Yank, “I thought I fecking told you to not call me that, you disrespectful arsehole.”

Ximena blinks, “You were looking for me?”

“Tom, actually, but he’s usually where you are.” Thanks, Hedwig. “This bloody fuckwit has the nose of a fucking bloodhound, I guess.”

He does a mock salute, “Anytime, kitten.”

Tom doesn’t need to be on high alert to sense the power spike in Hedwig’s magic. As she begins cursing the transfer out, Adam turns to Ximena and he, and speaks to her only, “I was looking for you too! Though not to find little Gat over here.” A head gesture to him, so he’s Gat? What is that? Some type of creature? His classmate seems confused as well.

“Wh-what did you need?”

She had forgotten to reel her magic back in again. He tries to nudge her arm or side, to try to remind her, but...

From beside her, Tom can feel her magic fluttering nervously and...bashfully. He looks from the transfer to her and back--There’s...There’s no way.

Adam smiles bright, and the shade of red that blossoms on Ximena’s face could dye miles of fabric. It’s the same blush that appeared on Lucretia’s face when Ignatius was mentioned. Tom takes that thought and shoves it in the rubbish bin.

“I’m feeling stuffy. I gotta get out of these walls--What’s that little village you all go to? Hogshead?” His elbow is offered, creating a barrier between Tom and his friend.

“Hogsmeade.” Ximena corrects, taking his arm gently and quietly, “I’ve never been, so I can’t say I can show you around.”

“We’ll explore it together.” Adam’s voice carries genuine good hearted intentions. Tom wants to kick him as he walks her away from the spot.

“Oh sure, go on ahead, good fucks, we’ll be just fine!” Hedwig calls, but the two don’t appear to hear, “Tough break Tom, guess she likes older men, ya?” She snorts.

“...It’s distasteful.”

“You’re jealous.”

“He is practically an adult, and she a child!”

“You’re jealous.”

“Sixteen and thirteen! He’s sick.”

“ _You’re jealous._ ”

“ _I’m right._ ” Tom corrects.

Hedwig snerks, “ ** _You’re jealous._** ”

His mouth twists into an unpleasant, sour scowl. Looking out for his  _friend_  and fellow Slytherin is not a sign of jealousy, Hedwig was just really growing to enjoy the taste of drama. “Say what you like, but  _that_  is inappropriate.”

Hedwig rolls her eyes, “Don’t muggles have age gaps in relationships too? Malfoy’s rumored to be engaged to an eleven year old.” Her arms cross over her chest, “My own parents have a  _seventeen year_  age gap.”

Good god. “Not all muggles have arranged marriages or are upper class.”

A blink, “Oh right, I forgot about that: marrying for love.” She hums, “A distant dream!”

“...How old is your mother?”

“Nosy little git, aren’t you?”  _Merlin_ , why is Hedwig like this? “She’s thirty-four.”

“Then your father’s fifty one?”

“On the nose, Nosy.”

“...So then, she had you and your sister when she was...Twenty-three and eighteen?”

“You’re good at this.”

“...Your father was thirty-five when your sister was born--No one saw anything  _wrong_  about this? No one in your family?”

Hedwig looks bored with the conversation, “Why would they? It’s how all the good purebloods marry off their daughters.” A yawn, “Need to groom them into being their ideal wife, yeah? Rumor has it they found someone for my sister. Some teacher at Durmstag.” She rolls her eyes, “I give him ten minutes at the first meeting to turn tail.”

Tom gives him two, “It’s very old fashioned.”

“Wands are made out of wood.”

He allows a chuckle to escape his mouth, “Point taken. Wizards like tradition.” And marrying off young daughters to men twice their age, “I forgot that.”

“Well don’t. You’re one of us. You have to start acting like it.” As if he hadn’t caught onto that by now, “You’re gonna have to take on a young bride too, I bet! Since you act so posh.”

The thought almost makes him nauseous, “Would my future bride just be turning two, then?”

“Bloody hell, no, she’s not even an itch on her father’s bollocks!” Hedwig cackles, “That’s another thing you have going for you Tom: You don’t have to be afraid of who your parents engage you to, just who your heart wants.” A glance out at where the two exited, “Or rather afraid of who your contemporaries hate.”

He stares out as well, “Hm. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh right, the whole reason I found Sir Overcoat [4].”

A look.

“It’s one of the words for mudbloods n squibs in America. Means ‘magic coffin’.”

Because magic dies when it sprouts in a mudblood or squib, “--Did he tell you that?”

“Ya. Said he prefers it to mudblood. Freak.”

Indeed, “So what did you need?” Hedwig is rarely if ever scatterbrained.

“Professor Dumbledore asked for you. Something about tea?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Euston Station was the place where JK originally wanted 9¾ to be, but she mistook King’s Cross for it. Smh, Joanne.
> 
> [2] Plurals is a modern way of saying minors, but I thought it worked here.
> 
> [3] This is a quote by Carl Sagan. My dad likes to use it when I’m wilding.
> 
> [4] ‘Chicago Overcoat’ was American slang in the 1930s meaning coffin. With such lame terms like ‘no-maj’, I figure it makes sense.
> 
>  
> 
> A conversation between me and Lion:
> 
> Lion: If Ximena and Harry were in the same time, would she like him?
> 
> Me: Uhhh, he’s too pretty, she would think he’s nice but overrated
> 
> Lion: Draco would have a crush on her
> 
> Me: Oh God
> 
> Lion: Some mommy-issues shit, because she looks like the nanny that raised him
> 
> Me: Help
> 
>  
> 
> The term ‘wool gathering’ is actually borrowed from Lion’s short story of the same name, which I hope she will one day publish to the web!
> 
> A big personal thank you to aspiringcynic on FF.net for continuing to leave lovely long reviews on each chapter! If you have a moment (and enjoy the idea of Tom/Padma), please check our her story ‘The Naga’s Bride’, I’m addicted. Another thank you to MintyFresCloud on AO3 as well! Your serial comments on my story inspired me to update a lil quicker!
> 
> And, of course, thank you again to NeonCupCakeAvalanche on GOTVG for your lovely reviews and to KishiWolf on Quotev, who was the first to leave a comment on the site that first saw this fic be born!


	10. Real Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Ximena talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapter names are courtesy of Lion. Enjoy them.

Sitting before Dumbledore in his office is a familiar, yet queer situation. He had been under the impression that there was no more need for weekly tea, as Tom was adapting quite well to Hogwarts. He has plenty of _friends_ and high grades.

Occupying his time with swinging his legs gently back and forth (his feet just barely reach the floor), Tom stares at the jar of sweets on Dumbledore’s desk as the man sets down a silver tray with two cups, sugar, cream, a teapot filled with hot water, and a small container with loose leaf black tea. In silence, his professor prepares their tea and sets down a cup before Tom, leaving him to prepare it himself (undoubtedly, Dumbledore remembers how he likes it, but he also remembers that he prefers to do it himself because he is _not_ a helpless little boy).

Dumbledore asks if Tom knows why he was called here, not in a way that makes him feel like he’s in trouble, but in a way that makes him feel like he’s about to tell him about the death of someone close to him.

“You want to talk to me about the war, sir.”

“Indeed, Mister Riddle.”

Tom’s mood sours more.

Headmaster Dippet has indeed sent back word to his orphanage of his safe arrival to Hogwarts. This, he has done to all Muggleborn families (and Tom cringes at that word) before breaking the news that _no,_ they cannot be kept at Hogwarts over the summer.

The disappointment seeps into Tom like spilt honey on wool.

And then Dumbledore explains the decision. It is not a talk that is given to every other student trapped in the Muggle world, he’s sure. This is a talk exclusively for him. Made and catered to him. And he’s not sure how to feel about that.

Old laws biting him in the ass, is the summary of what Dumbledore is telling him. In her history, the statue of secrecy had just begun, and the Ministry of Magic saw fit to become involved in Hogwarts policies, to the extreme charging of pureblooded families, who didn’t trust their children to the Ministry. Any opportunity not spent learning or studying was a chance for the government’s propaganda to infiltrate their heads, if it wasn't already doing so within the classroom. They had been hoping the statue was just a temporary hack. A mistake to be corrected.

They couldn’t allow their precious heirs to be left at school for so long. To be corrupted. Influenced. Swayed.

He knows that what he is learning is little more than a summary of the real history, but he still believes the words coming from the Deputy Headmaster. What reason does he have to lie to him?

But then, something awfully strange happens:

Dumbledore sighs, appears resigned, and leans back in his elegant chair, debating with himself, “I cannot appoint you a set of parents, or new family, Tom, but I can, perhaps, suggest a temporary guardian?”

His hands tremble as he stills in the mist of sipping his tea (four sugars, no cream).

_What._

The cup is set down in its saucer and rested on his lap as he clears his throat and composes himself, “Excuse me, professor?”

“It is as I said: Should the war...truly take as dark a turn as the Muggle Ministry feels it will, I believe I can help secure you an apprenticeship. With, of course, the permission of the matron at Wool’s.”

This...this _has_ to be some sort of trick. Surely, Dumbledore means to keep him under watch. Under lock and key. The person he suggests will be abusive or mad or incompetent or completely under the thumb of the Deputy Headmaster. Everything Tom does, says, eats, breathes, will be reported back to Dumbledore. It would be miserable. So much that it would be better to stay at...at the orphanage.

But...if this isn’t some trick? If he’s finally throwing him a bone (much deserved, thank you) and seeing that he’s wasting away at that hell space, then...Then the matron will not give any sort of permission. It’s a miracle she even lets him go here (Tom suspects some trickery on the school’s part, but he’s never asked). She would absolutely refuse anything that encouraged his ‘freak’ behavior. Even if it meant separating him from the orphanage, as she’s always wanted.

His distrust must be obvious on his face, because Dumbledore merely tells him to think it over. There’s no time limit. No real one anyways, unless the bombs drop tomorrow and kill him, but he doesn’t say that.

Then, he asks about Ximena.

Ximena? Oh no sir, he tells him, they haven’t spoken in months, she’s been very reclusive, not speaking to anyone. He says this almost like he’s hoping for Dumbledore to force them together on some sort of project. Sorting or grading papers, perhaps. Hadn't he once encouraged Tom to pursue friendship with her? But no, of course, no such thing happens. Instead, Dumbledore looks concerned for a second, nods, and speaks.

“I see. I had hoped that Mister Miller might have encouraged her to come out of her shell.”

Tom can feel his body language stiffen up at the new information.

He drinks his tea.

“But, that is talk for another meeting, another person.” Dumbledore waves away the low hanging fruit from Tom’s reach, and offers him some of the candy on the desk.

And to think he had forgotten all about Adam’s little witchnapping.

“...Sir, if I could,” Tom starts, catching Dumbledore’s attention, “I wanted to ask about Eric Acwellan and Ximena--I mean, I was wondering, how do you decide who to match Muggle-raised students with?”

Though a brow is raised, Dumbledore gives his question careful thought, before deciding to indulge him,“It’s a curious pair, as I’m sure you thought when Miss Lane presumably told you.” More than curious, “When I started the idea, the goal was to bring together two sides of the Magical Community together in harmony. An easy settlement for Muggleborns to come into the world. Miss Acwellan volunteered for the program herself, and she had--and has--no history of abuse or bullying towards Muggleborns,” Sounds fake, “I had hoped at the time that she was opening up borders for noble magical families.”

There’s something like reflection in Dumbledore’s eyes, and Tom’s not convinced it’s not regret.

“When I met Miss Lane, she seemed a bright young witch in need of proper guidance. Miss Acwellan seemed a good match in stature, talent, and temperament.” Alright, now he knows _for sure_ that Dumbledore is an old coot, “But just different enough to learn from Miss Lane as well. Grow. Just as your own assigned guide was similar, but not too similar.”

Tom wants to protest: he is _not_ at _all_ like that idiot. And he was useless in all the ways he wanted help in (well, save for help in useless things, but--)

“Do you know why my past guide volunteered?”

To his surprise, Dumbledore chuckles, “I believe it was a futile attempt to woo Miss Acwellan.”

Some things never change.

Once dismissed, Tom spends the rest of the day _not_ sulking. Merely being worried over his fellow Slytherin, of course. Fuck what Hedwig says, he would know if he had something ridiculous like feelings for another person. At most, he has one feeling for Ximena at a time, and when it's not curiosity, it’s frustration.

Even if he _is_ jealous, he has a right to be. Too many people are keen on taking away his teacher from him, just when he's getting somewhere with earning her trust. He saw her first, saw her for her true potential. Everyone else is just a copycat. Who else can say they understand her situation like he does?

What does she see in Adam, anyways? Silly girl. He had hoped she was above getting stupid crushes and feelings for people, but he was clearly wrong. Tom _supposes_ it’s only natural for a thirteen year old girl to feel like that, especially towards someone as boyishly good-looking as Adam, but it doesn’t make his mood any better. Really, it only makes it worse that he can understand why someone might like him: he’s infallibly magnetic. Charismatic. In a genuine way. Tom can spot a faker a kilometer away, being a bit of one himself, and the Yank is just that happy-go-lucky. His handsome face doesn’t hurt either. Balls.

Tom could be boyishly charming. Not naturally, he would have to work at it more (do a bit of growing), but he could eventually get there. Reach teenagehood, gain a couple of centimeters in height, develop a pleasing low voice...He’s already a beautiful boy, he knows, he could grow into a handsome one. He could study people and what makes them happy and laugh and blush.

...Could he learn how to make Ximena blush like that?

The cawing of a crow alerts him to her presence, but not fast enough to avoid walking into her whilst turning a corner, headed out of the dining hall. The sky’s dulled down to a muted grey-blue, and most of the students are on their way to dinner, opposite of his way. His cold face is pushed into her shoulder, right at a soft, nice smelling clean wool scarf. The corner of his chin, however, is scratched by something.

“So-sorry.” She clutches a book tight to her chest (the assailant to his chin), “I was lost in thought.”

He’s not sure if he wants to see her or not, but decides to deal with the event that fate decided would happen to him, “I’m fine. ‘Tis but a scratch. I’m sturdier than I look.”

An amused exhale, he’s glad his jests lands, though at the expense of his short height. How tall _was_ Ximena? “Still, I should have been paying attention. I’m glad you’re okay.”

A nod in confirmation, before he breeches the subject, “How was Hogsmeade?”

Fingernails drum against her book, “Uneventful.” Can’t say he blames her for wanting to keep the... _outing_ with Adam private. He would want to as well. Doesn’t mean he won’t still blame her.

“Is it really that boring?” Of course it isn’t,

“Oh you don’t want to hear about my time there.” Her tone is a familiar one: one spoken by adults to children who don’t want to bore them with adult stories and details. Tom doesn’t like that.

“I enjoy hearing about your day.” His hands go behind his back as he rocks gently back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, “I miss our talks.” _Because you’ve been neglecting me._ “I miss you.”

Guilt again. Her voice softens, “I’m sorry. I’ve been stretched thin lately.” Stretched over one person, more like, “Third year is so much more...good for me. So much to learn, so much to invent.”

Tom wonders if she’s been brewing potions again, “We can talk about it back at the common room, just us.”

Consideration, she holds her fingertips to her lips, “It’s been a while since we’ve had a talk, isn’t it? I think that’s a good idea.”

Tom is light on his feet as he walks alongside her, not behind. He decides to forgo the usual shared silence for more conversation, he has to play catch up:

“Have you met the other American?” He wants so badly for her to just forget about Adam, just for a few minutes.

“Oh, Mali?” Ximena says the witch’s name like _Mary_ as well, “Yes, we have Summoning together, as a matter of fact--A shame, considering how advanced she is compared to the rest of us, but it’s a blessing for me.”

Damn. Tom didn’t sign up for Summoning, “What do you do in that class?” Besides the obvious, but he can blame that on his upbringing.

“Well, what I and the other beginners do is all theory: history and readings and essays, none of the stuff that will get your hands dirty. Intermediate students are learning circles and sigils.”

“And Mali?”

There’s that quiet excitement again, he’s hungry to see it, “She demonstrates! Professor Pannikin doesn’t have a proper lesson plan for someone of her level, so she mostly serves as an aid for the lessons. An assistant teacher, if you will.”

What does a talented Summoner want with a girl from a renowned cursebreaker family?

“...What do you summon?”

“Oh, lots of things. Mostly druids, harmless fae, each other.” He raises a brow, “You can have people at your beck and call in theory: a matching symbol on them and on your summoning circle, and you should be able to call them from anywhere on the Earth.”

“Do the magical creatures do your bidding?”

“Well, for a price, yes.” Figures, “Most of them want simple, easily attainable things like flowers, honey, or good quality fabrics. Some want abstract things, like your name or your memories.” She shivers silently, and Tom understands why, “I don’t know if anything I need or want will be worth my memories, but the class is fun.”

“Do you take it just for fun, then?”

“Mm. For knowing. Summoning, in theory, is supposed to be used to gain knowledge or power or aid. To be able to request an audience with someone or something that you might otherwise might never be able to encounter properly in this life, or the next.

“Do you think you’ll have use of that, then?”

“Better safe than sorry, right?”

He agrees with her.

“...Do you know what Mali plans to do with her skills?”

“Mm, I think she means to bring forth some of her Gods for counsel back home, but I’m not sure. It felt private, so I didn’t push it.” A witch with Gods? Proven ones? That’s new. “Apparently Summoners are rare in the States, and ring up a pretty penny. She already has clients.”

“What a talented witch.”

Ximena agrees eagerly, “Isn’t she? We get along great, swimmingly, really. She feels like home.” Great. Another wonderous American come to take his teacher away, “I think she’ll be my Puff.”

“-- _Puff?_ ”

A blink, “Your guide for First Year didn’t tell you?”

“He mostly talked nonsense and gossip.” Not a lie.

“Ah, right. Um, well, most Slytherins have a Puff--That’s to say, a Hufflepuff to themselves, for friendship or advice or tutoring. We’re close, our houses. They call us their snakes. I believe younger Acwellan’s Puff is her cousin?” The boy she made Tom curse all those months ago because ‘he was a right prat’? Sounds about right.

A Puff...Older Kowalski was probably that to his past mentor, then. Explains the buddy buddy relationship well. Did that make Elle his own Puff, should he try to pursue one? He’ll have to investigate.

“How...Fraternity-like.”

“Isn’t it? I thought it was a little silly at first, but Mali has been so welcoming. And helpful! It’s like...It’s like having a sibling, I think. Her company soothes me.”

_\--What about him? His company?_

No, he can’t say that, even last year when he was often following behind her, he would go days or weeks without really speaking to her. Or looking in her direction. Damn his ambition to create a proper network of people in school. He’d have to adjust accordingly, but he can't spend every waking hour on her.

“I spoke with her earlier, she has a good head on her shoulders. Maybe she could be my Puff as well?”

“It’s not unheard of for that to happen, but I don’t think she’ll teach you what she knows. It’s not for you to use.”

_Some magic is personal. In the blood._

“Ah. I understand.” Really, too many times, he has understood. Understood when he has not wanted to. _Why_ isn’t this magic for him to use? Why is he barred from it? Why isn’t Ximena?

“Mm.” Ximena nods, “You have time for a Puff, if that’s what you’d like. You’re very social, I’ve noticed, so you shouldn’t have much trouble.”

“I’m social?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. I think in your first week, you must have spoken to more people than I have my entire time here.”

“I didn’t think you paid much attention to me--Your surroundings, I mean.” The slip up was on purpose, of course.

“Oh I don’t.” Oh, “But I’m good at hearing things through the grapevine. People don’t tend to notice when I’m sitting nearby.”

How does that not bother her? When Tom walks into a room, he wants to command it. To have everyone acknowledge his existence.

Furthermore, people _talked_ about him? How delightful. He had thought only the few Slytherins within his guide's circle and Dueling Club were mumbling about him, but knowing that his work to be seen has reached out further than the club makes him preen.

He can't, of course, ask about what she heard through the rumor mill. He has to appear humble, like what others say doesn’t bother or interest him.

“I don’t see how anyone couldn't notice you.” A half-lie. Ximena is fascinating and full of promising knowledge, but she’s also quiet, like a fruit stain on a patterned robe.

“Oh it's easy. People don't want to see what they don't like.”

The heavy words sink into his psyche. He remembers his first few weeks here, at the ugly questions people would ask him about her. The things they told him. The reason she thinks someone is keeping her precious treasure away from her. A part of him wants to ask about the bracelet. Another part of him vividly remembers the neglect he faced back home as a toddler, and wants to share that. To connect with her. Instead, he changes the subject.

“Will you be in Dueling Club again this year?”

A nod and a hum, “Sitting in the back, as usual, but yes. Will you be going? I know you were eager to join the rest up there.”

He didn’t think she noticed his want to fight. It makes him happy to know she did, “I hope so, the sport interests me greatly.” Upstaging everyone interests him greatly.

“Will you become a professional duelist, then? Compete in the World Championship in Bangladesh?”

Perhaps. His future is not sealed yet, but he likes the image of him as a powerful duelist: he would wear such nice clothes, much nicer than what he has now and _definitely_ not secondhand, “Do you think I could do it?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen you duel.” Fair, “Professor Merrythought talks about you in my class, though.”

He displays his humble pride again, “Me?”

“You’re a jewel, according to her. Uses you to encourage everyone because half of them are behind you, or close to it.”

Is...is she telling him this because she feels bad or...is she just being talkative today? With him? Is there some sort of reason she’s buttering him up? Is she going to say something soon that’ll ultimately hurt him? Or is she...is she just being conversational?

“Professor Merrythought is too kind.” He fiddles with his robes, “I’m lucky to have such a teacher as her. Really, I’m not as grand as she says.” He probably is. He wonders if he’ll be able to duel the third years successfully, then.

“You shouldn’t be so humble. It’s okay to carry yourself with pride.”

It’s not that he _needed_ her permission to do so, but her words make him feel safer at the idea of polishing off his ego and displaying a little of it to others, “Are you humble, then, Ximena?” He remembers the ease at which she cast the spells back in that Charms class last year. The strange, foreign spell that left her lips during her duel with Hedwig.

Ximena shakes her head, “Being humble implies I’m good at something.”

What kind of nonsense was this? “And what about that potion you brewed last year? For nerves?”

“That was nothing, I--Anyone could have done that. Really.”

“It’s okay to carry yourself with pride.”

A pointed look, but one of amusement. Success. “Point taken. But I stand by what I said: anyone with knowhow could have mixed that together.”

“Even me?”

“Well, if I did it my second year, why couldn’t you? Professor Slughorn speaks about you high enough.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“If you’d like.”

Excitement sparks in his heart.

“I’ll tell you what: if you can figure out how to make the potion for nerves that I brewed by the end of your second year, you win.”

“And what will I win?”

“Satisfaction.”

He can work with that.

They step into the dungeons.

Inside the cool common room is mostly empty, save for some spare firsties playing a game of chess towards the entrance. The two magicians find a comfortable space behind a large bookcase, on a rug surrounding an elegant coffee table. Ximena opts for sitting against a leather armchair, legs to the side, and Tom grabs a large velvet floor pillow to sit on criss cross, right across from her.

Ximena opens her book on the table.

“--That’s the same one you were reading when we first talked.”

“Hm? Oh yes, it is.”

“Almost done translating it?”

A soft smile, “Almost. I’ll share it with you when I’m done, if you like.”

Absol-bloody-lutely he would like it, “Please.”

“--You know, it’s good that you’re so interested and willing to read books outside your curriculum; most people I study with think this stuff is a waste of time.”

“People in your classes?” _When I’m not able to talk to you?_

A nod, “It makes sense: they all want jobs here in Europe, so foreign pieces like these are mostly useless to them.”

“...Do you want to leave Europe one day?”

“I want to leave as fast as I can.”

Hm.

“It’s...just miserable here. And now with the war starting...Well, I don’t want to be around if Germany comes.”

“You would leave Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts is...it has been many things to me. Good and bad. A good escape. A bad dream. But I feel trapped.”

He can’t say he understands, but he definitely doesn’t _not_ understand, “Where will you go?”

The quiet excitement he saw on the train last July returns to her face, “ _Latin America._ ”

Ah. He doesn’t know much of that area of the world, Muggle or Magic. He’s sure they have their own problems and wonders, “Is that where you’re from?” He figured, after his research on the bracelet and all, not to mention her little Hallowe’en story from last year.

“I believe so.” Her finger pads rub together as she thinks, “It’s not so much memory as... _feeling._ ” Eye contact, “When I perform magic from that land, I feel...whole. Complete. The food I eat here, it brings me so much more joy than any other cuisine.”

“Do you know the names of the dishes you eat, then?”

“No...not all of them.”

This intrigues him, “Do you think Hogwarts just knows what you would enjoy best then?”

“...You know...I’m going to sound so...I actually never thought about it before.” That’s a first, surely, “I just...when I first sat down to my meal, and I got something wildly different, I was too happy to really process _why._ ”

“House elves must be very knowledgeable, I guess.”

A moment’s confusion before realization dawns, “I might have known.”

“Skip that chapter of Hogwarts: A History?”

“I skimmed the book.”

Oh? “Didn’t like it?”

“It felt too revisionist for me.”

“You’ve been working on your vocabulary.”

“Trying to. Thank you for noticing.” Of course. Only he would notice.

“So why is it...revisionist, did you say?”

“I...It was just a feeling, at first, like most things. It talks only about the good. The glorious. Nothing about...muck. It practically glosses over Salazar Slytherin’s decision to leave the school.”

...Now that he thinks about it, he was wondering about that. Oh he can induct based on the talks of others, but no one ever really told him the story.

“I was curious, so I tried searching in other books. Most were similar. It wasn’t until I found personal journals in old languages that I found something satisfying.”

“--You went into the sections for older students didn’t you?”

She doesn’t even look ashamed, “Of course. Baring knowledge from people is unjust.”

“Is that why you let me follow you into the second year sections of the library last year?”

“I...confess, much of that time, I was too focused on my task to notice you were tailing me.” Ouch. “But the moments when I was aware, yes.” That makes it better, he supposes, “You value knowledge well. That’s good. It’s admirable.”

As nice as it is to be in her company, his ego is likely to burst at some point, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Do you think, then, that someone told the house elves how to make that food you always eat?” He presses.

Finger pads gently tap tap tap on the pages of her book, “I...suppose that’s only logical. I can’t say I would know _who_ but...Maybe Dumbledore?”

He can’t help it. He snorts.

“Ah...You’re right.” Of course he is, “He’s been very kind to me, but his...helpfulness has given different results.”

“Maybe your ancestor came to Hogwarts--And taught the house elves themselves.”

A sad smile, “Wouldn’t that be a dream? Walking the same halls that my parents, grandparents walked...” She sighs, shoulders slumping, “I don’t think so. I’ve scoured through records of all sorts. If any relative of mine has stepped foot on these grounds before me, they are distant, and irrelevant.”

To Tom, any relation, even something as ridiculous as a step-second-cousin thrice removed by marriage, is golden. It’s a ticket out of his orphanage. It’s a claim to blood.

“I’m sure there’s more documents to look through, more family trees to find, but...No, it is hopeless.” She nods, resigned, “I am the first in my line to step into these grounds, I know it. It is the same feeling by which I feel I belong to Latin America. Do you understand?”

He shakes his head.

She looks sorry, “I suppose it’s a lot to ask of someone to understand. There’s more than that, of course, but solid evidence isn’t as interesting as things felt in the spirit, yes?”

Oh, Tom begs to differ.

He tries, regardless.

“...It’s like...how I _know_ that it was my father who is the wizard, and my mother who was a _Muggle._ ” It starts and is out of his mouth before he can even hesitate, he’s never told anyone of his theory...Aside from...“I just know it. I can feel it.”

It occurs to him, watching Ximena’s gaze change from curious to sympathetic, that he just shared something awfully private with her. Damn.

But Ximena, despite being a snake, merely nods with understanding, “Yes. Something like that.”

He doesn’t say that his gut feeling is more like a desperate plea.

“Does it bother you, then, that your mother is a Muggle?”

If he’s being honest, it bothers him that she _died_ more than her being magicless.

Her use of _is_ rather than _was_ is not missed, “...I don’t obsess over things I cannot change.” It’s not like it affects him academically or socially anyways...So long as this keeps quiet (and it will, for Ximena is not a gossip-monger nor cruel.)

“Do you think your father is still alive?”

 _‘He has to be’_ almost comes out of his mouth, but he stops himself, “I know he is.” That sounded better. Confident and sure of himself. Grown up.

She hums lowly, looking at her hands,“I see...I think...you’re better off as a half-blood, if I may be bold with you.” Always.

He tilts his head.

“The complexities of what it means to be a true half-blood aside, there’s the obvious: so many purebloods have health problems.” _All the purebloods get sick after the holidays._ “And I know it doesn’t show, but there’s a large number of deformations that can be hidden under clever charms.” She chuffs, “Genetic variety aside, there’s only so much magic you can really grasp when you only have samples from such a small pool...You’re a talented boy. If you had come from only highblood, I don’t think you would be as skilled.”

Oh? “Are you saying that I have access to more magic power because of my mother’s Muggle blood in me?”

“In a way, yes.” Ximena would really get along well with Elle, “Families like...the Blacks, for example, they’ve specialized in dark magic for...centuries. And they’re impressive for it, of course, but there’s no flexibility. Light magic is a stranger to their wands and cores...They have so much trouble conjuring even the simplest of light charms, it’s embarrassing.” That was the closest he’s ever heard her be...snide about something. How interesting, “God, I mean...Cassiopeia Black can’t even conjure the Patronus charm. Head Girl, top of her class and for what? For power in only half of all spells, if that.” _And_ all that half-power wasted on a marriage contract, surely, if Hedwig’s talk expands towards the Blacks, and he knows it does.

Is this what his past mentor meant when he said she was obsessed with methods? “Of course, magic prowess is as random as real genetics, I’m sure, and really is more dependant on skill, but...” She looks at him again, “It doesn’t hurt to have something like a head start from your parents. Height, physical ability, looks...and ease with which to cast certain types of spells.”

“...Spells even Muggles can cast?” They must not be very powerful, Elle’s food magicks lecture aside.

She can sense his doubt, he knows it, “Especially. I think, if nothing else, maybe Muggle blood cancels out some of the barriers that a pureblood magical core has evolved to build up over centuries...To leave room for growth in another direction, should the witch want to.”

“So then...You would claim that Magic-Muggle marriages are beneficial?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Scandalous, “You’ve told others about your theory?”

“No,” A defeated sigh, “just you.”

He likes that. He’s like her confidant. Her partners in class don’t know about this, and _Adam_ certainly doesn’t either. He’s special.

“...You never know, I could still be from the purest of lines: I almost got sick last spring.”

“That’s just how germs work. Or maybe allergies?”

“I don’t have any allergies.”

Her lips purse, “Didn’t you say you lived in London? You wouldn’t know it with the lack of greenery. It’s not like here.” Obviously.

“What about dust then? N’ mold?”

A hum, “True, true, you’re right,” He ignores the feeling he gets when she admits that to him, “But maybe you’re used to those things?”

He hates that that’s plausible.

“Maybe my father was from a very fine pureblood line, then?”

“A scion of a magical powerhouse...Joining with a Muggle? I’m sure it would have been the scandal of the century.” _I’m sure we would have heard of it_ is what she’s saying.

“Maybe it wasn’t so public. Maybe it was a secret affair.” He continues to cling to the idea that his father is someone worthwhile.

“Mm. It’s common, if the gossip webs I come across are true.” Tom visibly perks up and quirks a brow, “--Oh, well,” She clears her throat, “That’s a bit mature for someone your age.”

“I’m only a few months younger than you.” Not even a year! They’re separated at Hogwarts on a stupid technicality.

Ximena’s fingers drum on her book again, “I...Please trust me on this. There’s types of information that is ugly to hear. I would much rather keep it from you.”

Is she trying to protect him from something, then? He doesn’t need protection, he’s not a weak little boy. He’s fine. He’s strong.

“...Alright.” He picks his battles.

The shuffling of pages. Silence. One. Two. Five seconds. He can’t let this active conversation die, he won’t let it, she’s never talked this much with him.

“Did you find out anymore about your bracelet?” Wait, shit, no, he thought too fast, he didn’t want to remind her of that--

“I know it’s close.” Shit. “I can...hear it sometimes.”

“ _Hear?_ ”

“The magic in it. It hums.” _Shit shit shit._ “It’s very low. I have to strain to hear it.”

“Do you think someone who hears magic naturally could help you find it?” He remembers Yami, and the ease that she noticed the shift in Ximena’s magic.

“Mmnm. No. I think...I think only I can hear it. We’ve spent so many years together, it’s only natural.”

Then why can’t she hear it in his pocket, right now? Or is she playing with him? He really should leave it back in his nightstand.

“..Why is it only sometimes?”

“I...don’t know.” He holds in the breath of relief as he listens to her frustration, “I can’t figure out why. I can’t understand it.” Her displeasure in not knowing something is almost tangible. Tom can relate.

“Something you don’t know? That’s a first.” Distraction with flattery is a talent of his.

“Don’t be silly, I can’t possibly know everything.” Dismissing his flattery is a talent of hers.

“It feels like you do, sometimes.” His elbows rest on the smooth wooden surface before him, leaning forward, “You’re like an encyclopedia.”

“Mm. I think Acarya would better suit that title.” Coming from her, Tom takes that as high praise. He really should mingle more with Yami.

“Perhaps...But I think your information is more interesting.”

She gives a thoughtful look, “That’s an interesting thing to say.” He almost snorts, “Why interesting? Why not useful? Or practical?”

“The things you know...I think it draws my magic.” Like a shark to blood. “All I know from Acarya is light spells. Theory and defense. _That’s_ practical. You...you’re a mix, I’ve found. You don’t shy away from certain spells, even if they’re dark. I find use from them, but also delight.”

“You think your magic center is dark, then?”

He thinks he knows what that means, “Yes.”

“You fit the bill, going by archetype. It can explain why some of the things I help you with resonate better with your magicks.”

“How do you know so much?” A laugh as he says it because he wants it to be a compliment. And it is.

“I read.” Obviously. He reads too. But he doesn’t know like she does, “Though I suppose it’s what I’m reading that matters.” Absolutely. The foreign books often seen in her hands are fascinating to say the least, but they aren’t very helpful in his classes...Not like the so-called _revisionist_ ones. He might get a great substitute for a potion ingredient, or pronunciation help, but he’s still not getting much from them...What is he missing? Why isn’t he reaching the same conclusions as she is on magical theory?

“Do you read for pleasure?” To know?

“That’s a part of it.”

“What’s another part of it? Hobby? Research? To look intelligent?”

Another pointed look, again with amusement in her eyes, in her lips, “It’s like this: If I were to tell you how to cast a certain spell...I tell you the incantation, the wand movement, and the intended effect...Would that be enough to know how the spell actually _worked?_ How...best to maximize its potential?”

He’s greedy to hear more from her. Why does she want to know such things? To gain power? Triumph over others? Prove herself? “Perhaps not.”

She shakes her head, “I don’t think so. It can’t be that easy. I refuse to believe that. Otherwise, why doesn't everyone in charms class succeed immediately when learning a new spell?”

Because they're all idiots, obviously, “You want to learn why magic works, then?”

“ _Of course,_ don’t you?”

He must confess, he had never truly thought of it that way. Magic is something to control. To submit to him. He could care less about the whys as long as it works.

His negative reply is regretted the moment he shook his head, she looks disappointed, but not surprised, “Why does magic even do as we say? Why doesn’t it always work one-hundred percent for everyone who is a witch, even children? Why should it matter if someone is trained in order to perform powerful magicks ‘properly’? What is proper magic?”

Does she want him to answer? He doesn’t know. Magic does because it’s a tool. And warlocks use it. It doesn’t work for people who don’t know how to use the tool. Proper magic is when exceptional wizards (like him) hold the tool. That’s how he sees it.

But he wants to look intelligent to her, so he leans further on the coffee table between them, looking intrigued, “Are you saying there’s better ways to utilize magic than how we’re being taught: a method tried and proven through centuries of notable witches?”

“ _Yes._ ”

If so, he would like to be first in line to try these new methods out.

“How Muggle.”

“They’re effective problem solvers.”

They’re also effective problem causers.

“I can see that.”

“Can you, though?” She has a right to ask him that, she’s heard more than enough talk from him about how stupid Muggles are, “Wizards in Europe used to relieve themselves in public and magick away the waste, did you know that?” He did not. The thought is horrendous and makes him shiver in disgust, but he can believe it, “Make a mess and throw it away, that’s the warlock way.” A sigh, “Imagine if the Muggles on this continent hadn’t adapted a proper waste system...No pipes in Hogwarts?” Filth.

“You don’t think wizards would have figured something out?”

“Not at all. Why would they? They’re so... _content_ in their...their...”

“Obstinacy?”

“Does that mean pigheadedness?”

“Stubbornness.”

“Then yes. _Obstinacy._ They’re happy with mediocrity until someone they see as lesser finds something better. Leeches.”

The sharp bitterness in her voice is appetizing. It’s been too long since he’s seen her angry.

“The Romans had their aqueducts, and when they invaded Britain, they brought bathing with them, but once they were all gone, how fast do you figure wizards here were to return to the old ways? Did it take ten years? Two? A week? As fast as the Muggles?”

Muggle history, he confesses, is no longer a strong suit of his. He had once loved learning of conquerors and leaders in the classroom of the orphanage, but that was abandoned upon Dumbledore’s visit. Perhaps he was mistaken to do so.

“You know, even now I can hear _jazz_ pass through highblooded circles. They’re taking it for their own. Making it seem like their idea. That they simply took it from clumsy black Muggle hands and made it better.” Ximena’s gentle hands tighten so hard, Tom can see them shake, “And really, isn’t that just the peak of pureblood culture?”

Tom would like to think that wizards hated and rejected everything Muggle, but the more Ximena speaks, the less easy it is to think so.

“I’m tired.” Her hand rubs her temple, “In one, two, three years, we’ll see gramophones in the shops at Diagon Alley, fixed to work in high magic areas. We’ll hear new witch vocalists harmonize over loud brass and stinging strings, singing about _magic_ this and _spells_ that, because that’s all they seem to sing about, is how they’re magic and different from the Muggle singers.” It is a rant that would sound better if it were ignited and fast, but coming from her exhausted form, it comes off as reluctant fact reading. The resigned announcing of surrender terms.

And Tom understands. When he left the Muggle world for this one, he wasn’t leaving a world of corruption and ugliness for a world of betterness and justice. He was leaving one lonely world for another.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

“I hate it too.”

She looks at him.

“I hate the sneers given to me when I tell people where I come from. Where I was raised. Even when I surpass them in class, in trials, in studies, they want to hold my Muggle upbringing against me. When I quote Muggle literature, they praise it for the wisdom and superb wording until I tell them who it was that wrote it. My notes in books are made fun of for using pencil, but I have Carrows, Flints, Yaxleys asking to borrow one when no one is looking. Sometimes, I _want_ to tell them my blood status. That a _filthy_ half-blood is their better in every way.”

His own voice is even and calm as he speaks his truth. It doesn’t take away from his own hatred of Muggles and their sins, but rather add onto it: Why couldn’t he escape his ties to the Muggle world here? Why must he be scrutinized over an upbringing he cannot help? Curse the filthy _purebloods_ and their unattainable standards. For not realizing that one of their own was wallowing in a miserable orphanage surrounded by Muggles and not saving him.

“I didn’t think you’d understand.” Is that relief in her voice? “--I thought by now they might have brainwashed you.” _They._ The purebloods. They’ve influenced his thinking more than anyone else (other than, perhaps, Ximena, if he were being honest).

Her magic is pulsating vibrantly like a drum.

“I thought maybe you were just humoring me on my ideas about dark and light magic...About everything else too.”

It occurs to Tom, that she is now sharing something awfully private with him. Evening the playing field. He holds fast to her words.

“I...People here come and go from me. Never linger. And that is fine. I like that.” _I am better in darkness._ “My ideas aren’t taken seriously, I’m seen as an amusing little curiosity, and people don’t listen to me. Not really.”

 _But he’s different. Of course he is._ Only he really listens to her and what she has to say. To share and teach. Only he’s smart enough to see her worth.

“You’ve given me hope.”

He preens.

“Thank you.”

“--I wish you could come to Hogsmeade, there’s this ice cream parlor you would love, they have so many flavors...I’ll tell you what: we can go together next year, if you’d like.”

Nothing has ever sounded sweeter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Scott Pilgrim vs The World AU of this fic, Hedwig is absolutely Wallace (or Kim?). I want you all to know this and watch the movie with this in mind (or better yet: read the comic!) Lion says that Tom isn’t even Scott, he’s Gideon, but we all know he has to be Scott so Nemesis can be Knives Chau.
> 
> Reading this to Lion this time around was a treat: she kept going back and forth from “AWW HE LIKES HER” to “SHUT UP TOM YOU DUMDUM”, it was great.
> 
> THANKS to aspiringcynic (again, cries) for catching the typo in the last chapter orz My dumb bird brain didn’t see it.
> 
> AND thanks to all the new readers o/ please leave reviews, i have rent to pay and plants to feed, ty
> 
> //on a side note, if you rp on tumblr, hit me up, i started rping ximena for funsies, but i have other muses available.


	11. Soft Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom moves his pieces. Ximena holds a hand.

The enlightening conversation held with Ximena is rich and impactful enough to stay within the forefront of his mind for hours (perhaps years) to come. Of course, at such a conversation, it’s natural for one to feel drained. Ximena bids her goodbye and retires early to bed, disappearing away to her dormitory, book in arms.

It is of course, then when he realizes he forgot to ask her about the summer. And _misplacing_ him. Damn.

He drums his knuckles on the table. Ah well, they have the rest of the week. Of course. Why wouldn’t they?

-

The following days are surprisingly warm to the delight of the student body. Tom’s Herbology class is even given outside, and as the professor begins his long, drawn out speech about proper climate and soil types (all things he has already memorized during the break), his mind begins to daydream.

Whom will he partner up with? His usual pick seems to have found a friend to pair up with instead of him (what a fool, that friend’s head is full of dust), and the crop of his usual partners in classes are nowhere to be seen. Figures.

Tom steals a glance to a small cluster of classmates to his left: average bottom feeders and people content with mediocrity. Nothing special about them. Any of them would be ecstatic to have him as a partner, but he’d definitely be carrying the both of them. On the other hand, they wouldn’t disrespect his choices and authority in assignments unlike the highbloods competing for high grades.

The other boys in his year no longer send him curious, cautious, _jealous_ glances. Now they do all that with a _smidgen_ of respect. Their support is no longer just reserved for public performance, but also within the walls of their dormitory. Seats aren’t taken up by coats and books and bags so often when he’s present. He’s _allowed_ to sit. Precious. Cute. As if he ever _needed_ that permission from them. But it’s good to have. It’s another door. Another possibility.

And whatever possibility he chooses, he needs company to reflect the status that will come of it.

The girls in his year which he is already acquainted with are, as stated before, at a terrible disadvantage. Brilliant though they may be, they are of little help outside academics. A boy in his second year is expected to have himself pulled together and have a proper boys group his age. It was something his previous _mentor_ wasn’t very helpful in (though he made up for it by introducing Tom to older students). No matter, he just has to focus on befriending more boys, rather than migrating his attention to varying places as he has been doing... Troublesome.

Evan is easy. They’ve exchanged pleasantries already. He asks questions about what Muggles are _really_ like and chuckles along with him about their stupidities. It is a test, Tom knows, like the ones he was forced to undertake when he was suspected of being cruel to the other children at Wool’s. Like these tests, Tom knows how to cheat, and he knows what the practitioner wants to hear. Evan is comfortable where he is, socially and academically. He has no need or want to be angry at any political turmoil (like Nemesis) or stale status quo rules (like Hedwig). With Evan, Tom is a content bystander, happy with the sad state of wizard affairs.

 _Katux Lestrange_ is harder. More difficult than even Ian. He looks at Tom with hardened eyes and sneers when he thinks he’s not looking. It is only by the skin of his neck that he is not called _mudblood_ by him (if it’s not his blood, it’s his speech, his accent, his secondhand clothes and books...A multitude of reasons to pick on him.) There were honest and good attempts at roughhousing from he and his group during those first few weeks at Hogwarts, but that stopped as soon as it was evident that Tom wasn’t going to let himself be shoved around by someone who looked like he only bathed twice a month (the hygiene standard for some wizards were _horrendous_ , it’s why he had no trouble believing Ximena’s quip about their _waste._ ) After flicking them off like the annoying louses they are, he simply turned on the charm. Showed them just how _merciful_ and _forgiving_ he could be. After all, he’d been through worse at the hands of _Muggles_ , and the lame bullying from Katux and his friends was laughable. Something a toddler might attempt when they were mad at a strict guardian: tripping him in the halls, jinxing his legs, switching out his food, making fun of his (fake) crush...This was the best they could come up with? Hilarious. When Tom was done proving himself to them, he left marks. On their skin and their mind. At the orphanage, he could only get away with things that were subtle. But here in the security of Slytherin house, where you were expected to not air out your dirty laundry, it is much easier to get away with nastier things. The other boys won’t tell, it’d be too embarrassing for them. And Tom certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone: these boys were beneath him. Not worth mentioning to even Hedwig or Ximena. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity.

Nowanddays, Katux leaves Tom to his own devices unless he _needs_ to interact with him, only occasionally frowning when Tom inevitably steals the spotlight in class. He’ll happily group up with him for assignments and put on a whole show for the teachers because deep down, he _knows_ that a little no-name orphan is gaining footing over him. The last time he tried to do anything was when Tom found a dead (and hexed) rat in his bed near the end of last year. Childish. They learned how to spot these elementary little traps the first week of DADA. Couldn’t the heir to a mighty house do better? Pathetic. Maybe when his pride wains down to where it _should_ be, he’ll buck up and genuinely ask Tom for help with homework, like Dion Mulcipher has: over the summer, as a matter of fact; an elegant owl with coal black feathers had perched neatly on the back gates of the orphanage where Tom was playing, envelope in his beak. Inside was a roundabout letter asking for personal help. A hand. It was one of the better days of the summer.

Dion is much less _annoying_ than Katux, and a lot more cheerier. Eager to please. A follower. A sheep. It makes Tom see him as pathetic, but also in a preferable light. He was the easiest to charm of the boys last year, and the easiest to manipulate into sharing secrets. He followed alongside Katux like a dog the entire first year, and Tom’s sure by the end of this year, he’ll be following behind _him_ instead. Dion knows his place in life. Katux and the rest need to be _taught._

Unfortunately, there is no one else willing to put these brats in their place. _Fortunately_ Tom is here.

Year one was spent on laying groundwork. Exploring his options. Inserting himself into high-bred spaces. Now, year two must be spent on building his _inner circle_ , as his old guide called it. The people which will grow to become his right and left hand men. He has to be sure they’re fit. That they aren’t inadequate in anything they do or are involved in. In society, politics, and…

He frowns. Damn Hedwig for being born a girl. She’d be more than useful. Even Nemesis (with or without her little _crush_ ) is better than both Katux and Dion combined. His theory is that both Hedwig and Nemesis feel as if they have more to prove thanks to their gender, but deep down, Tom knows that Katux and Dion are spoiled imbeciles. Maybe he could convince them (and the rest) that talented, pureblooded girls were worthwhile outside of their marriageability. They wouldn’t breach the boys group, surely, but they could be...kept around. Women can’t be knights, but they could be warriors, right?

As for Ximena, she doesn’t count. She is only a year ahead of him, sure, but even if she wasn’t (and he wishes she wasn’t at least twice in as many weeks), he doesn’t think she would be a right fit within his inner circle like the others. She’s too tolerant. Different. Evan and the rest might excuse and even welcome the first two girls, but Ximena? Another no-name nobody with the added fault of being foreign, dark skinned, _and_ a girl? He can imagine the opposition now. He remembers the first few weeks here. He always will.

 _Dark and savage, I bet she never speaks because she doesn’t know how to._ That was muttered by Druella herself, and Tom always found that strange ever since he witnessed her being in the same classroom as Ximena. _Surely_ she’d have heard her speak at least once. But the confusion slowly went away as he realised that the Ravenclaw’s distaste had no rhyme or reason. She was merely talking out of her ass. Idiot. If she were going to try and talk badly about Ximena, she could at least go through the effort to observe enough to know what the fuck she was talking about. Criticize legitimate things like her forgetfulness and agonizing need to only half-explain things.

No, Ximena would have to prove herself. Just as he has been doing.

This, he assumes, will be as easy and as natural as breathing, despite her adversity to attention. He knows she’s a skilled witch, and he’s never wrong (well, _almost_ never wrong), and it’s only right that she show lessers just how special she is. Put others in their place, the same way he does. She’ll have to grow thorns, and prove that she has a right to walk among the elite-- _To step on the elite._

There has to be another happening like the Duel from last year. And this time, she will not be allowed to wait it out.

He realises, of course, that this means sharing her attention and time again with people who didn’t deserve it. But he can curve that attention easily now--Their talk yesterday _meant_ something. A strange sort of camaraderie. An alliance. He has sway. Not just with her but also with the better part ( _the better half_ ) of Slytherin House. This time he won’t be shoved away into the background, he’ll remain right nearby as he should be. _She’ll_ remain right nearby as she should be.

His mouth draws into a thin line. It would be difficult, but it will be done. He has to be sure of it. You don’t get anywhere in this world without hardwork and other people to hand you things. He just has to twist an arm or six.

Highbloods are, unfortunately, resistant to change. It’s why it’s taken him so long to fully get both Katux and Dion in his back pocket.

It comes as a pleasant surprise, then, when Evan comes at his side after the lecture, clay pot in his gloved hands. The boy asks if Tom had any partner in mind yet in a way that tells him that he already knows the answer. So be it.

Tom nods once, accepting the offer, and so Evan Rosier steps into his court.

-

Tom Riddle is a planner.

He, like many other children his age, has had his share of _eruptions._ Of overflowing emotions that get the better of him. But he is still a planner. Sometimes those plans are improvised or served up short noticed, but he _is a planner._

Before him, there’s a good handful of notes copied from the book of curses that Ximena lent him all those months ago, including scribblings from the book of dream interpretation and the memoir from the seer. Atop the open, blank book is the bracelet, sitting pretty as if it wasn’t the cause of his torment and curiosity for the past year.

Tom has a plan but he doesn’t know what it is yet. Which is to say: he doesn’t have a plan at all and is just buying time. To pawn the bracelet on another or pretend that he found it (which, technically, he _did_ ) and give it back to her in a heroic gesture? The former, of course, sounds like too much work to plan out, he has better ways of dividing his time, but it _would_ serve as a nice way to put down some of the prissy students that still haven’t gotten over his unknown blood status. Maybe Ximena would curse them if he framed them? How delightful.

The idea of giving it back as if he was the one who found it (again, he technically _did_ find it and _did not at all_ steal it) isn’t as ideal (there’s no two birds with one stone outcome that he can think of), but it’s easier. Would help solidify whatever trust he’s built up with her. Maybe she’ll even tell him why she looked so ashamed over the topic of her wand. Maybe she’ll let him hold it.

Hmm. A long shot. Still nice to think about.

The third option that he wishes was a viable one is to keep the bracelet, of course, but he’s long concluded (rather slowly over a long matter of months) that that wasn’t a good idea. The first nightmare inside the Hogwarts/Wool’s hybrid was only the start of a series of confusing, disorienting, and perturbing dreams for him--Though none of them ever gave him that same _feeling_ as the first. They didn’t need to. They were only reminders. Reminders of what is happening around him. Of what _could_ happen to him.

Curses are about prolonged suffering. Dreams are just dreams in the end.

Alongside the hesitance to give up such a mysterious magical object is the acute fear that she would be able to sense his lingering magic on the bracelet--Just as he had been able to sense hers (eventually), woven into the threads. _Asking_ if there’s anyway to erase your magical trace from personal items is a red flag if he’s ever heard one, no matter _whom_ he asks. Only guilty people want to know that. People who are hiding something.

He’s not going to be treated like a thief again. Not if he can help it.

The hour chimes and he gathers his materials neatly to head for Herbology. It’s been a week since his last long talk with Ximena, and in the usual fashion (it’s only become usual in recent times…), he hasn’t been able to catch a real conversation with her. A part of him blames Adam, and another part blames not knowing her schedule yet. He likes to blame Adam more. For reasons.

There is also, of course: Mali. Ximena’s Puff is seen with her so often, the students with lower counts of brain cells have taken to thinking they’re _siblings_ \--A thought so stupid as it is prejudiced: Mali has a clear ancestry, and Ximena does not. There is also the very obvious detail that _the two look nothing alike._ Mali is average height and full figured--Well fed. Tawny skin and straight black hair. Ximena is the tallest witch in third year--and possibly fourth and fifth year. She’s as slim as a stick (though more noticeably so at the beginning of the year) and has hair curls rivaling Zabini’s. To think that the two are as closely related as _sisters_ is equal to thinking Hedwig and he are twins.

Of course, when he voices these observations, he is brushed off: of course the two dark skinned girls who are always together are related, his eyes are just funny.

Idiots.

Sometimes he takes to sitting at their table when they’re together, but he doesn’t like that so much because Ximena very clearly and _obviously_ favors the attention and company of Mali, and to his _extreme_ displeasure, he doesn’t blame her: Mali is a fountain of information much in the same vein that Yami is. Why would Ximena ask a little second year a question he probably doesn’t know anything about (but also has a really _really_ good chance at knowing because Tom knows he’s brilliant), when she could turn around and ask the experienced, older, wiser witch from a distant land? One much closer to the one she calls home?

He still sits at the table, of course, because he has a right to: he’s a Slytherin, sitting along his (one) fellow Slytherin. It doesn’t hurt that Mali will occasionally indulge his own curiosity on summonings and related matter. She does not, to mild yet unsurprising displeasure, bond with him as a Puff should their snake. He expected this: when Ximena asks a specific question about a casting or incantation, Mali speaks in a low voice close to her ear: because it is a magic that is not for him.

Tom’s barely spoken to anyone in Hufflepuff house save for Elle (whom he suspects will withdraw from Hogwarts any day now) and a handful of Nemesis’ siblings (who are remarkably less talented than their youngest sister). The Puff he _wants_ out of the bunch is Elle: though meek and a little anxious for his tastes, she’s not annoying, and has a fascinating (albeit fantasy-like) view of magicks. A view of magicks similar enough to _Ximena_. She has a soft reputation and image that could help him gain an upper hand with some of the less prestigious houses in Hufflepuff. The Puff he should _probably_ try and get is a Fawley: rich, well connected, and knowledgeable. The three he’s spoken formally to are all rather good-hearted, noble witches, and really that doesn’t bode well for their survival in a post-Hector Fawley world. Purebloods need to be thick skinned and ruthless to survive in these times.

Maybe he should try for _two_ Puffs. Nothing wrong with being greedy.

He brings up the idea in the form of wanting advice to Evan once in class. They are becoming as thick as thieves, at least in the eyes of the people around him. Tom (and he suspects Evan does too on some level) knows that this is merely a relationship of benefits. Evan obviously has a lot to offer, and Tom? Well, it's obvious what he has in his arsenal.

“All the Fawleys in Hufflepuff are full of hot air.” He says, shaking his head, “Don’t know who Kowalzski or whatever is, but they’re certainly not a pureblood from Britain.”

Tom hums, listening intently, growing curious, “What about the Fawley in Slytherin?”

“Nemesis Fawley? Naive. Raised and content to be a witchwife, I’m sure.” Evan yawns, trimming the leaves off his plant, “Our mothers were playmates as children, so I know her family well.”

He can’t say he disagrees. Nemesis seems the type to have loved playing with dollies and pretending house and dreaming about weddings. But her words on the Wizengamot--He can’t dismiss them. There’s a spark there. A spark he can grow into a roaring flame, “How are they coping?”

His partner rolls his eyes, “Hector Fawley’s resignation knocked a good few of them down, thank Salazar.” Evan’s words feel rehearsed. As if he were repeating phrases heard from his parents, “Maybe now a few good bills will pass and we can finally ban half-bloods from Hogwarts.”

Hm.

“Half-bloods?” He’s heard more than enough greif about them, but mostly the purebloods are stuck on squibs and _mudbloods._

“Filthy creatures. Only a handful are able to justify their existence.” Evan glances at him, calculating, “Renounce your Muggle heritage, for starters.”

“Seems fair.”

“ _More_ than fair.”

Tom would renounce his in a heartbeat, if it didn’t mean admitting to it. He still has no _proof_ , maybe his cursed mother _was_ a witch, but she was just pitifully _weak_ and that’s why his father rightfully left _\--_

“What kind of name is Riddle, anyways?” This is why they could never actually, truly be as thick as thieves: provenance is too important to Evan and his kind. Well, for that reason and others: Tom doesn’t need friends. Not like the kind that others have. He needs friends of his own definition: loyal, obedient, and malleable. Not friends who are _caring_ , or loving. That’s a waste of a relationship.

He doesn’t lose his composure. He continues tending to his plant, “It’s a last name.” Evan chuckles. “Could have some roots in France--I haven’t seen it anywhere else in Britain.” _I haven’t seen it in Muggle spaces._

“You’d be a true foul git, then.” Indeed. He’d have to learn French.

“I never thought you would be patriotic.” This is the truth--He expects Evan to be nationalistic. Do the English hate the French again? He missed the memo. But maybe wizards are just behind on the times again. Wouldn’t be surprised.

“Britain first, Tom.”

The professor interjects as they walk by, interrupting to praise Tom’s work. He smiles.

-

In his time at Hogwarts, he has developed a couple of habits and tendencies that he is not proud of. The main ones are as follows:

One: his social skills. Oh sure, they were much improved, and growing second to none, but hell if he doesn’t internally gag every time he has to pretend to warmly greet a rude classmate or entitled pureblood. If his ten year old self could see him now, he would be both impressed and _disgusted._

Two: This habit is entirely redacted, because it’s something he still is not entirely aware of, and it is something he does not at all want to admit to himself or anyone ever. Mind your business.

Three: his impulsivity. He’s a growing boy, and he needs to learn to control his impulses _better._ To reign in his anger or shock or excitement. Because tantrums here can’t be brushed off by explanations like ‘freak accident’ or ‘just the wind’ or ‘hysteria’. Because in those few seconds of impulsivity, he gives a brief way of insight to his real self. The one he’s been trying to fix and hide and reinvent since Dumbledore first told him about Hogwarts.

It is this impulsivity that causes him to charge directly at Ximena the next time he sees her alone.

He pins her down (figuratively, of course, she’s much taller than him, and he’s still suffering from underfeeding at the orphanage) in the corridor outside of Potions.

“Oh.” She’s surprised to see him, but the tone of voice isn’t one he hates. She recognises him. Acknowledges him.

“Long time, no see.” His voice is surprisingly casual for his currently mood.

“Ah. Yes.” She scratches the back of her neck, sheepish, “I meant to speak with you again, but time got away from me. Third year is really when the difficulty level raises.” This means much coming from her. It makes him thirst for next year.

“It’s alright. As long as you don’t forget me again.” A low blow, but he doesn’t want to waste time.

The slight flinch in her face tells him the punch landed, “I promise this time that that is not the case.” Good. “All I can really spare of my time right now is at meal times.”

Meal times where her time wasn’t all his own anymore, “I know. I understand. I don’t mind!” Lie. “Mali is great to listen to--So much to learn, and so little time.” Not a lie.

This seems to lighten the mood. Her posture relaxes, “I knew you’d like what she has to say...She calls me her little viper.” How...cute? Quaint? “Don’t mind what she doesn’t share with you, if she had a problem with you sitting in on our talks, she would have said so by now.” _That_ he already knows. Druella is still afraid of the Native witch.

Tom nods, making sure to look shy but determined, “Do you thi--”

Nemesis exits the classroom briskly and bumps straight into Tom.

It is not a full on collision (he saw her out of the corner of his eye last minute and thankfully was quick thinking enough to step aside) but it’s enough to make him _deeply_ annoyed. The feel of Nemesis’ soft magic was strange and sudden. Overstimulating.

“Oh I’m so sorry--Oh, aren’t you two little chatterbugs cozy?” Nemesis acknowledges them both with carefully neutrality, “Lane, Tom...Gossiping about little Flint’s new look?”

“I was talking about Mali: my Puff.”

“Just asking some questions, is all.” What timing, Nemesis, “Wondering if I’ll get a Puff.”

“Oh, I’ve dreamt of my snake ever since I was little, but I think a part of me always knew that I would have a _Puff_ instead--”

His mind wanders--He can’t help it, Nemesis’ voice is just so _bland_ sometimes, it fits so nicely and perfectly in the back of his mind while he thinks on other, more important things. Like the start of Dueling Club on Thursday.

Ximena has indeed stayed out of the spotlight using whatever grand methods of hers, but she will not escape this. She will volunteer herself, or else _be_ volunteered. Against him. In a duel.

It won’t be _immediately_ at the first meeting, of course, he still has a few things to check and plan, but it’ll be...soon. Ish. He’d like some practical experience first (lest his arrogance grow to insurmountable heights), especially because he’s sure that Willow wouldn’t let him duel against someone older than him unless he prove himself first.

All he has to do is make sure Ximena arrives _late._ Which is something he’s still trying to plan and figure out. She is either as punctual as a Swiss watch, or she just doesn’t show up to Dueling Club at all. He’s read on different spells and potions that alter the victim’s perception of time, and while that seems the safest way, it’s also the hardest one: gathering ingredients for a potion that he could be expelled for using on another student isn’t exactly something he should be spending time on. As for the _spell_ , he cannot find the incantation written in any book (smart authors), and he hasn’t been able to swing by the sections restricted to those in his age bracket.

Option two is easier. Though more can go wrong: he can distract Ximena well enough on the way to the meeting that she miss the cut off time by _just a few seconds._ Perhaps that would be an opportune time to reveal some carefully scripted babble about the location of the bracelet? He can see the stumble in her step now. The look of shock and hope on her face. The utter feeling of _gratitude._ All come before the dread and anxiety of realizing that they had walked into the hall _late._

Oh that attention she’ll bring: someone as non-confrontational, punctual, and unassuming as his classmate walking in late as if she had all the time in the world? With him walking beside her? It would be like arriving to one of Slughorn’s parties dressed to the nines without an invitation! Unheard of! No student would dare!

Then of course, there is Adam: who has established himself as someone who always does such a grand job of showing up unannounced. Such as in about seven seconds.

“...and--Oh, your nose!”

Tom’s fingers reach to see what she could be talking about (what could have been the miraculous thing that took her out of her rambling), and they touch wetness. Come away with blood. Bugger. He hasn’t had a nosebleed in a while.

“I can fix that,” Nemesis is quick to point her wand at him, and he would happily let her conduct whatever spell it was she has planned, if it wasn’t for the unsure look Ximena cast her way. Did she doubt her ability?

“--It’s fine.” He holds out his hand firmly, stopping the spell, “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m used to them. I just need some tissues,”

Ximena ruffles through her bag to presumably hand him something to stop the nosebleed with, but is interrupted by that terrible, loud, booming American voice.

“Oh golly, Tom, you’ve got yourself a massacre in your nose?”

He did _not_ give him permission to call him by his first name, seniority be damned. He does not vocalize this, of course, he merely blinks in shock at Adam’s sudden appearance, and more so when he brings out a clean, white handkerchief from a pocket, “Here, I get ‘em all the time. Mama says I have enough blood to stock my own blood bank.” How gruesome.

Hesitantly, Tom takes the offering from the Yank’s hands, pressing it to his bleeding nose, “Thank you, Miller.”

“Don’t mention it, you look like the floodgates were opened up there. Dry air, am I right?”

The blood was starting to drip down his chin. Damn. Tom tries for a little chuckle.

“Miller! Right in the nick of time, how heroic.” Nemesis quips, eyeing the tall, sixth year boy.

He rubs the back of his neck, “Me? Heroic? Gosh. You sound like my mama.” Tom refrains the urge to roll his eyes. “I was just passing by, the common room was getting a little overheated. Something about a debate, I think. They've been going at it for three hours now.” Something obnoxious, probably.

“Glad you’ve joined us.” Nemesis speaks for herself (and maybe Ximena, unfortunately).

That ridiculously beautiful smile again, “Happy to be here! You cats are alright.” A glance at Ximena, “Did it work, by the way?”

“Ah, um, yes. It did. Thank you.” She clears her throat.

“Happy to help.”

It’s during these times, he’s happy that being nosy while also being a young boy is excusable, “Everything alright?”

“Should be! ‘Mena’s just having trouble with some Divination assignment, so I chipped in my two knuts.”

“You take Divination, Miller?”

“Sure do. Pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.”

Was that what they talked about at Hogsmeade? Figures Ximena would ask about academia. One of the houses she could have been in was probably Ravenclaw, if any. But what they talked about (regarding academics, anyways) isn't important. What interests him is that she's having _trouble_ in any subject.

“Scrying is often difficult, so I appreciate the help, of course...I’m much better with palms, though that’s not really the same.”

“Yeah? Could you read mine?” Adam extends his hand out expectantly, palm up.

Oh there was that dreaded stain of red on her cheeks again. If her skin wasn’t dark, she’d look like a piece of hard candy.

Forever passes by. Ximena clears her throat and carefully takes Adam’s hand in hers before pressing down her index and middle finger in the center of his palm, “ _Oh._ ”

Tom tenses.

“I, um.” She licks her lips, a small gulp, her fingers move, “You have many friends, and few enemies. You’re honorable. Affectionate.” Tom can practically feel the burn on her face from here, “You-you, you’d...” Her lips press together, “I can tell you’ve never held hands with a girl before this.”

Adam smiles, “That’s amazing, Ximena.” Oh for fuck’s sake.

Tom wishes that Hedwig were here so he could eagerly await what lovely thing she had to say to break the mood, but Nemesis speaks instead, “She’s the first girl you’ve held hands with? How romantic!” _Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s not romantic, it’s weird! She’s too young for him--_

Ximena sputters out something that _sounds_ like English, but got lost on the way out of her mouth. Adam laughs, the perfect picture of boyishness, “You think so? I wouldn’t know about that stuff. I think it’s a bit sad if she’s the first girl I’ve held hands with.”

“I don’t, I don’t know, um, about about that uh, either--” Ximena’s hands stiffen as if she were holding a mole instead of Adams hand.

"You're just a late bloomer." Nemesis claims. Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"I guess you could say that." A chuckle out of the older boy, he finally takes back his hand and turns his attention back to Ximena, “Can you read tarot cards, ‘Mena? My sister taught me, maybe I can read yours?”

Ximena shakes her head, and Nemesis coughs suddenly, as if a fly flew into her mouth, “Your Muggle sister knows how to read tarot?”

“Oh yeah, lots of Muggles can.”

She looks flummoxed. As if a fundamental truth in her life was just proven wrong. Tom didn’t think wizards knew what tarot was.

“Wizards use tarot cards?” Tom's voice breaking the silence feels strange after going so long without saying anything. He can feel the dried blood on his lips crust and crack with the movement.

“They are...temperamental and notoriously difficult to decipher, but yes.” Nemesis clears her throat, and her discomfort is so evident on her face that Tom wonders if she’s going to skew her face that way permanently, “Could you...could you teach me? There’s not a lot of wizards here that know how to do it properly.”

If there was anything revolutionary about Nemesis asking a Muggleborn for help in magic, Adam doesn’t show any sign of noticing. His smile is consistent and bright, “Sure!”

Tom tosses a quick look at Ximena for any signs of jealousy. He finds none. She is as reserved as always, hands folded in front of her, lips in a thin line. Thinking. That makes sense, it would be _silly_ to be jealous over a sixteen year old boy giving lessons to a twelve year old.

Ximena’s throat clears, “I thank you for your offer, but no. I’m fine.” Her hands fold neatly in front of her, “Tarot cards don’t like me.”

“Ahh, got a history?”

Tom raises a brow, glancing at his schoolmate.

“Mm. Something like that.”

“Are you cursed, Lane?” When the question leaves Nemesis’ lips, he can see the corners of Ximena’s frown.

“Whoa there, that’s a bit personal ain’t it?” Adam intervenes, hand out, sounding a little uneasy. Nemesis blinks her response.

“Is it? It’s just a question, are you not allowed to talk about curses in polite company back in the States?”

“ _Lord in heaven,_ no.” He’s aghast, “You can ask people if they’ve got curses on them, but it’s bad manners to ask whether you’re on the side of a fascist or not?”

Nemesis looks uncomfortable again, just as she did the other day in the library, “The climate here about _that_ is...It’s complicated right now. It's just customary not to talk about it...Didn't anyone tell you?”

“I know as much about magic politics as a dog knows about kettle corn.”

A blink. Adam laughs, elaborating, “I don’t know anything about the history or process, but I sure do consume it.” A fair enough comparison, if not...stupid.

“They don’t teach you that sort of thing?” Nemesis asks.

“I mean, not like y’all here, I guess.” He scratches the back of his neck, “Heck, I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about people’s family lines, fortunes, and histories in the last three hours, if I’m being honest with you.” This catches Tom’s attention: apparently Gryffindors can be just as prideful about magical heritage as Slytherins. “Is that just a highblood thing?”

“Well--Yes, I suppose it is.” Nemesis folds her arms over her torso, “Every pureblood heir in Britain is supposed to read this _manifesto_ of sorts, I’m not allowed to know the name of it, being, well, the seventh daughter.” She sighs, part bitter, part resigned, “From what my eldest sister was allowed to tell me, it lays out... _rules._ Family lines. History. It’s why it’s so hard to _argue_ with so many of them, they have every date and name ingrained in their memory like their own mother’s face.”

“Even families like the Weasleys read it?” Tom speaks up, hooked onto Nemesis’ words.

“They’re _supposed_ to, being one of the oldest and purest houses, but _no._ If what I overhear during parties is true, then no self respecting Weasley would ever be caught dead with that book in their house. Heir or no.”

Tom knows Ximena enough to recognise the contempt in her face. She loathes the idea of grooming children like that, obviously. As for Adam, it looks as if he’s taking Nemesis’ words seriously.

“That’s so...so…” Effective? Useful? Pragmatic? “ _All you highbloods are such wet blankets.”_ Ah. “Can’t you let your kids be kids?”

Nemesis blinks, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t y’all _play_? Sports or board games or something?”

“There’s Wizard’s Chess and Gobstones, if that’s what you mean.”

It isn’t, if the look on Adam’s face is anything to go by, “ _Real_ games. Not stuff adults play.” He sighs, gesturing to Ximena, “What’s that game you said you liked? Pirates or something?"

"--Buccaneer."

The name rings a bell for Tom: he's seen it on display at a few department stores on the way to church back in London. A board game, if he's correct. A few of the orphans talked about pooling their money to purchase the game last year, but Tom wasn't interested in those things anymore.

"Yeah yeah, that one: there's no strategy to it. No war parallels or skill involved, it's just...chance. Just colorful, stupid fun. Don’t y’all have stupid fun? Or is every one of you trained to be a little politician by the time you’re eight years old?"

Nemesis frowns, feeling cornered, like there's too damn much to explain to him, "That's a mixed bag."

Adam sighs, like maybe he feels he’s gone a little too far, or like he’s afraid he hurt Nemesis’ feelings, “I mean...and don’t take this the wrong way or anything...The way things are in your little _Wizengamot_ , I’m not surprised at the state of it all.“

This statement has little effect on Tom, or even Ximena (whom Tom is positive agrees with Adam), but Tom can tell that the words seize Nemesis like a cruel grip on her throat.

The older boy reaches over to cover Nemesis’ hand with his and squeezes, “Don’t lose sight of what’s important.” He lets go, turning towards Ximena and Tom, “See ya, pals.”

As he walks off into the corridor, a pair makes their appearance: Evan and Hedwig stroll up with timing a little too perfect, eyes narrowing at Adam’s back.

“The _fuck_ was that about?”

Ximena chuffs. Hedwig eyes her as if she had insulted her grandmother. Evan greets them all neutrally.

“We were just talking.” Nemesis mangages to say, sounding contemplative.

“Aye, talking, that’s what me n’ Rosier were hearing.”

Tom raises a brow, “Eavesdropping, Hedwig? That’s not like you.”

“Sod off, Tom.”

Evan clears his throat, “Merely concerned over our fellow Slytherins mingling with a...Gryffindor.”

Ximena’s lips form a thin line. This conversation is not going to a very nice place at all. She excuses herself silently, shuffling through Hedwig and Evan.

“Something I said?” Evan knows better, and his voice shows it. His little grin shows it.

“Forget Lane, she’s blinded by love.” Hedwig scowls at Nemesis, who is looking more and more like a mouse by the second, “ _What the fuck was that talk all about._ ”

“Nothing. It was nothing.”

“Certainly didn’t seem like nothing.” Evan’s stance is vulture-like, “New American _mudblood_ criticizing the traditions of his betters?”

“What in Merlin’s balls were you thinking telling him about the _bloody book?_ It’s illegal to have it! He could go off talking about it to fecking Dumbledore!”

“It’s not illegal to have, just to make copies of!” Nemesis bites back, sounding like a mouse equipped with a sword, “He wasn’t being insulting or anything--”

“That’s not what we heard.” Evan interrupts, eyeing Nemesis up and down in a way that reminded Tom of the way distrusting adults would eye him back at Wool’s.

“Well you heard wrong, then. We were just having friendly conversation, he’s really very nice--”

“--Fawley, for fuck’s sake, stop fraternizing with him! You’re already at the bottom of the rung here!” Hedwig scolds as Nemesis cowers only in the slightest, “It’s bad enough that Lane fancies him, but now you’re _asking him for help?_ ” That’s...a bit hypocritical, isn’t it? ”What’s next, are we going to let him into the bloody Slytherin common room now?”

“--I am not above asking for help from someone who knows what they are doing.” She maintains eye contact with Hedwig, “And neither should you.” Bold. Interesting. Is Hedwig’s potions tutoring finally stirring up trouble?

“Ya, but from a mudblood? At least ask a half-blood, for fuck’s sake.”

The slimmer witch turns her head up and away, refusing to argue further.

“ _And you,_ ” She points at Tom, who looks _not_ dumb at all in shock at her accusation, “Letting Lane go about flouncing after him! Never thought ya for a passive snake.”

Tom blinks, “..I’m not her keeper.”

“How very modern of you.” A monumental eye roll, “If you had man’d up and told her ya fancied her, she wouldn’t be trailing after him like he was the best thing since sliced fairy-bread. Shit, I bet you can’t even tell me a single personal fact about her!”

Evan raises a brow crossing his arms, “Didn’t realize this was going to be a war council meeting on how to phase the Yank out of the life of our fellow Slytherin.” Must have only thought it be a ‘war council’ meeting on berating Nemesis and speaking ill of the Yank.

Tom feels a headache coming on. Hedwig takes his silence badly.

“All this time, and you can’t even tell me her favorite color? What music she likes? Her baptismal name?”

Tom scowls, annoyed with her criticism, “How do _you_ know what a baptismal name is?” Or what Christianity is, for that matter.

Hedwig scoffs, “ _I read._ ” Liar. But he won’t call her on that.

“What do those things matter?”

“Really, it’s no wonder she likes that bugger Yank so much over you, they actually talk about _themselves_ instead of just academia.”

Tom takes extreme offense to that: he’s obviously still (still?) Ximena’s preferred person to speak to...obviously, he’s the closest thing she has to a friend. A best friend. Surely. And they talk about personal things! Deep things…Beyond that sort of surface level nonsense. That’s more important, right? What they spoke about in the common room is infinitely more intimate than things _friends_ talk about.

Nemesis clears her throat, braver now that the heat was off of her, “I know...as a boy, things like favorite color or food or even just tastes in clothing is silly, but,” Her fingers fiddle together nervously, “ _that sort of thing is noticed by girls. We like it._ ”

He glances at Evan for confirmation, but he only shrugs helplessly (honestly, what was he expecting), “Druella goes mad whenever Cygnus notices her new earrings.”

“It’s not about great grand gestures.” Hedwig nods, “It’s repeated acts. Mum gets on the pig’s back[1] when Dad brings home her favorite flowers.”

This information is, of course, contrary to everything he’s ever noted or learned about affection. Is he out of touch?

“Perhaps it’s just not meant to be?” Nemesis offers, fingers lacing together, looking adequately and gently apologetic.

Hedwig snorts, muttering something under her breath that might have been _‘ya, you’d like that--’,_ but he ignores it.

“Regardless of Riddle’s little...affliction, I do believe keeping the American mudblood around can only bring discord to the school.” Evan cuts in before Tom has a chance to defend himself against Nemesis ( _he doesn’t have a crush, dammit),_ “Not to mention that Mali girl...Sitting all the time at our tables? Puff or no, it’s not a good look. A Gryffindor thought it was alright to sit next to me and Katux the other day. It was horrid.”

At this, Tom tilts his head, “Were they Muggleborn?”

“ _Merlin_ no, but soon they might be.”

“Afraid of a few mudbloods, Rosier?” Hedwig teases.

“Hardly. I just want them to know their place. We can’t all be as _tolerant_ as you.”

Hedwig? Tolerant? Has he _heard_ her speeches?

“It’s called being fucking polite, you stupid plonker. Were you raised in a barn, or have you always been a daft cow?”

Evan chuckles at Hedwig as Nemesis looks uncomfortable.

“I like Lane. She keeps out of the way and knows when to shut up. I’d hate for that to change thanks to the mudblood’s influence.” Evan declares, resting his chin on his knuckles, “Better to stop the leak while it’s still a leak, right? Before the flood happens?”

“--Can this diabolical plan happen _after_ he teaches me Tarot?” Nemesis pipes up, hopeful and pleading.

“Oh shut it, Fawley, just have Dmitrieva owl her cousin for lessons.”

“I actually agree with Fawley on this.” Evan declares, glancing at Tom to see if he would catch on to what he was going to say, “Milking out all the information from him before any plans to ostracize would be ideal, as disrespectful as he is.”

“Come on, Rosier, information from a _mudblood_?”

“...I hear his mother is the scion of a powerful family.” Tom speaks up, chin raised, “A squib of a squib, perhaps? I’m sure he knows more than his...demeanor lets on.” More than once, people have said Adam was an idiot, but Tom’s yet to see any real proof.

Hedwig looks at him in disbelief, but Evan smiles approvingly, “I knew you were smart, Riddle. Katux owes me five sickles.”

“I’m surprised Katux had enough brainpower to know what a proper bet was.” He counters quickly, hiding the grimace at the thought of someone speaking down about him. He’ll have to put Katux in his place again soon…

“Well his parents are cousins, so you’d be correct.” Hedwig sneers.

“Tsk tsk, Acwellan, half of all pureblood houses have married cousins.” Evan’s tone isn’t disgusted, but it certainly isn’t offended. Tom suspects he’s just keeping up appearances. It’s an answer fed to him by parents meant to be repeated, he’s sure. Just like everything else that comes out of his mouth.

“Ya, maybe with you disgusting Brits, but certainly not with us.”

Oh, Tom can see the flare in Nemesis’ eyes at _that_ , but as she opens her mouth, Evan secures a hand on her shoulder firmly and _pushes_ her down, “Now now, my dear grandmother is Irish, as a matter of fact--Not that you needed reminding.”

Hedwig flinches, grimacing. Hm. He’ll ask her about that later.

“I thought we were past fighting about Irish or British citizenship.” Nemesis holds her chin up high, throwing a half-hearted glare at Evan, “My family worked to keep the divide strictly within Muggle borders, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know _all about_ your family, Fawley.” Hedwig brushes her off, no doubt wanting nothing more than for her to stop talking, “ _But back to the point--_ ”

“We _will_ keep the houses from mingling, yes?”

“Interrupt me _one more fucking time_ , Rosier, I fucking dare you--”

Tom tunes them both out.

Houses uniting...This was wanted. To be able to slip past the barriers that others couldn’t get through. Reach out to people in other houses and _now..._ Well, it’s not backfiring exactly, but it’s not going as smoothly as expected. What were Evan and Hedwig even really angry about? Hedwig cares not for race nor house, but blood is important. Evan is tolerant of outside purebloods, but abhors the idea of letting a Gryffindor sit down beside him at lunch. What the hell is the damn problem?

He rubs his temple, headache growing steadily. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Tom feels he’s performing a balancing act, where one action must counter the last. Where everyone has to be happy. This is, of course, absurd, not everyone can be happy at the same time about the same situation. But that doesn’t mean he can’t force happiness on them. Make them content with what he gives them.

Lucretia and he will just have to try harder to make them see the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Getting on the pig’s back is apparently an Irish saying meaning something like ‘on cloud nine’ and I have no idea why.
> 
> Sorry not sorry about the late update because y’all don’t leave reviews :v Except those who do, y’all know who you are, and I would kill for you.
> 
> Ughh, trying hard not to introduce too many names that you need (“need”) to remember, but at this point, it’s worthless. Tom has too many damn people in his in-club, y’know? I’ll try to input reminders periodically so people don’t get /too/ confused.
> 
> Also, writing in Tom’s POV, even in third person, is exhausting. Expect for there to be occasional interludes of other character’s POV, just for a change of pace. Not sure who I’d pick first, but it’s between Dumbledore, the matron, or Hedwig atm.
> 
> Also ALSO: been thinking of changing the title. Serpentine was something I picked out of a hat because I didn’t know what direction I wanted to take the story in (if any). Now I’m thinking of naming it...idk, something less pretentious.


	12. Suddenly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :v i didn’t read this by lion before posting it (she's been a busy bee), so it’s probably the weakest chapter yet.

Of the Dueling Club meetings that Tom is least fond of, he would have to say that the ones where little action happens take the cake. Meetings that talk about safety sanctions, updates to the British League rules, and reprimands to the more rowdy club members.

The type of meetings that are in second place are the ones where each and every  member pairs up with those in similar power levels and spar all across the hall--Mainly because Ximena always manages to be absent those days, but also because it’s more difficult to focus on the fights that he finds most intriguing.

That is, of course, until today. When he’s able to finally, _finally_ participate.

The room is the same as it was last year, only a handful of new faces sprinkled around like weeds. What _is_ entirely different is the air of the conversation when he enters the room.

Yes, there is the occasional _‘cute’_ comment from an older student still, but most of the words leaving people’s mouths regarding him are of reverie _._ Admiration. He’s becoming the Golden Boy, just as he promised himself. They ask him if he’s excited to finally show his stuff, make Slytherin proud, join the official school team--They’re like reporters from The Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly. Magister Monthly. Frantic for an interview, a word, a glance in their direction.

He glows.

Willow walks in with her billowing robes fluttering grandiosity behind her, smiling at the students and greeting her favorites. When she speaks, she holds the entire hall’s attention--Even during the boring little tidbits of safety and sportsmanship. A true mark of a great witch. At the end of her introduction and welcome, new members line up in front of her messily. Eagerly. Tom is the only refined second year of the bunch, if it wasn’t for his height and young face, he’s _sure_ he’d be mistaken for at least a fifth year. His permission slip (with an expertly forged signature) is handed to Willow without any fuss, though there was a hefty anti-forgery charm on it (disabled with some trouble, but still disabled, in the end).

The new members are given partners with whom to gauge their skills and knowledge with, while the rest are paired off to spar proper. Tom finds himself pleased to see that he’s up against another wizard _older_ than him. Ximena wasn’t lying to him when she said that his reputation precedes him--Slughorn and Merrythought must have spoken to Willow beforehand. Good. Less time wasted on his part.

Tom has the sense to only appear humbly confident as he strolls up to his side of the small dueling oval (marked on the ground with chalk), stifling down his eager excitement into a locked compartment in his heart. Outside, he is a cool and controlled Slytherin boy, ready to face his first opponent. To prove himself.

His sparring partner has the _gall_ to look assertive and sure of himself: Ian Rosier. His ugly face smiles at Tom as if he were doing him a great honor by speaking to him. Tom forces himself to take the other’s hand in greeting anyways.

They bow, waist deep (the other’s is shallower than his), and take out wands from their sleeves: poised and ready.

The elder boy strikes first, quick and elegant, just as Tom had observed the year before. It’s a simple stupify that he brushes off as if it were a mosquito. He’ll have to do better than _that._

“Protego.” His little voice, fierce with authority, lashes out--And he internally cringes, because he doesn’t need to be _fierce_ , he should try and look more effortless, right? As if this was nothing? Or should he really try to stick to the image of humility?

“Expelliarmus.”

Tom wants to huff--Ian is going _easy_ on him...Fair enough if he were any other second year, but he’s _not._..What if he starts to goad him?

A counter spell, and Tom digs into the arsenal of material that Hedwig had given him so long ago, “ _Reducto._ ”

The surge of power he feels extend from his wand is enough to give him goosepimples. The flinch and look of surprise from Ian is enough to send a satisfying chill up his spine.

Unfortunately, he manages to block it at the last second, gathering his bearings and eyeing Tom like he _cheated_ or something, “Petrificus totalus.”

Yes, _now_ he’s getting somewhere. Treat him like a _real_ opponent, dammit.

Back and forth, they parry. Strike. Block. What thrill, what in his life could ever measure up to this? He’s a _natural._ Just as he knew he would be. Ian has nothing on him. Absolutely nothing. Repeating itself in his head was the sentence: _Ximena wasn’t joking._ When she said that Merrythought believed him to be _better_ than those in her year...This was pathetic. _All_ of Hogwarts was pathetic. Where were the standards? The level of skill that his haven deserved? All tucked away in just him and a handful of people?

The other spars in the room end quickly and begin anew--But his and Ian’ duel goes on. He knows he should stop while ahead, it’s only the _wise_ thing to do: magical exhaustion is just so easy when you’re young.

But there’s a reason he’s not a falcon, isn’t there?

 _Why should he_ stop when he’s already so far ahead? So close to the sun? Why should he step away and speak to his senior about his _posture_ or _wandwork_ and _Oh what else can I do to improve?_ What does Ian know, anyways? He’s barely holding up his own to someone with half his experience and seventy percent of his height.

Tom will stop when he does.

But people are starting to take notice. Tom’s focus is _entirely_ on the fight, but his sensitive ears pick up little chatterings--’They’re still going?’ ‘Aren’t they tired?’ ‘Is Willow really allowing this?’ ‘That’s Slytherin’s not-mudblood, right?’. Yes, yes, _talk about him._ Create stories and legends in his name. Watch in awe at how _young_ and _gifted_ he is. This poor little orphan without a damn coin to his name. With the accent of a poor Londoner and the wardrobe of a beggar. Come and see how much _better_ he is than your haughty lexicon and your miles of dragon leather and silk. How all the money and blood in the world can’t stop you from succumbing to under his heel.

“ _Godric’s beard,_ Rosier, he might as well be a mudblood, and you _still_ haven’t finished him off?”

The quip from the Gryffindor doesn’t sting Tom quite as much as it does Ian. His sparring partner _snarls_ like some kind of dog at the recognition of his shortcoming, and begins to fire a spell he does not at all recognise.

Tom fires faster.

_“Cruc--”_

“Rictusempra.”

The push back is enough to cause a recoil on his end, and as Ian blasts back into a few students not enraptured by their duel, he _howls_ in laughter. Pained, furious, loud laughter. Cackling like a mad man. He doesn’t _stop._ It’s enough to seriously disturb him...If he were some little baby, he means. So he’s not disturbed. At all.

Willow pushes past the onlookers, a look of absolute anger pointed at Ian. She demands he tell her what in the Founder’s names he was planning on casting on a second year student. _What was he thinking? Does he want an express ticket straight to Azkaban?_

The dueling instructor is so terrifyingly worked up that she doesn’t even register that Ian _can’t_ respond. All he can do is laugh. Glare at Tom’s little smirk and laugh himself to exhaustion.

-

The halls buzz with scattered news on the war, Grindelwald, gossip, and his little _triumph._ Of course, the triumph is talked about as if it were Rosier’s _misstep_ , but...

But they’re talking more about him, right? Not about Rosier, right?

Hedwig, as usual, doesn’t make him feel better, “You went against baby Rosier?” She’s cornered him in the main area of the common room, looking like she ran here from wherever her last class was.

“Yes, I won.”

“Ugh, I _knew_ I should have skipped orientation I mean, fecking hell--I hear he tried to cast a bloody Unforgivable on you!”

“--A what?”

Hedwig rolls her eyes, “An _Unforgivable_ , Tom, clean out your ears once in a while.”

He doesn’t know what a damn ‘unforgivable’ is, but apparently he’s supposed to--Something like insecurity pulls him away from asking Hedwig. Only a Muggleborn would ask what an unforgivable was. He’s not a Muggleborn. He’s not he’s not. He doesn’t have dirty blood.

“I couldn’t tell, all I know is that Willow was furious.”

“She stopped the fight?”

“Well no, _I_ ended the fight, she only came afterwards.”

Hedwig scoffs, “Ya figures. I bet she was holding back from breaking the two of you off. Did the same with me and Lane last year, remember?”

He does, “It’s not like she’s entertained by it all, right? Students fighting?”

“Well she’s a sadist, I’m sure, you see what she does with Wood every week.” It’s Wood’s own fault that he’s late every week, but he understands, “She keeps her hands off duels, it’s a West African thing, I think. Their fights are to the death.”

“--To the death?”

“Ya, but she wouldn’t ever let it go that far, even if it was a Rosier fighting.” His clueless blink has her rolling her eyes, “You can’t just interrupt a duel that has a bloodline like that involved--There’s old laws about that. Centuries old. Even little clan brats like little Rosier are covered under it, and he’s not even the heir of his family.”

“Wouldn’t that just be for _official_ duels? The sort fought for honor?”

“Old laws are vague on purpose, Tom.” She waves her hand, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was expelled, the idjit.” Hedwig shakes her head, “All that incest in his family line must have ruined any chances for a good head on his shoulders.”

“--You don’t think his family’s status would save him?” He doesn’t comment on the later words, he has to play neutral on that disgusting ground for now.

“Oh definitely. Lucky son of a bitch.” Her tongue clicks, “But if he _wasn’t_ a member of one of the purest houses in Britain, he’d be gone in a flap of a snidget’s wing.”

“...Snidget?”

“Fuck’s sake, Tom, learn vocabulary, or people will start to believe you’re Slytherin’s first mudblood.” The thought (the near accusation) bruises him deeper than expected. He doesn’t reply. “I’ve associated myself too damn much with you for that to happen, you got it?” As if he would get better for _her_ sake...But her resentment is understood. He would feel the same way.

“Affirmative, captain.”

“Sod off, Tom.”

Heh.

He asks on her orientation for the competition, as well as the tutoring she was receiving for it, and Hedwig tells him it’s going splendidly--She’s learning more than she thought she could from the _bloodtraitor._ Even _they_ have their uses.

“I’ll be set to win the WSPC without a hitch.”

“Assuming Acarya gave you all her cards?” That’s not very Slytherin like.

Hedwig purses her lips, “ _I_ have some skills too, you know.” She flicks away her wild hair from her eyes, “Mysterious oriental magicks or no, I am a foe to be reckoned with.”

He doesn’t disagree, “Care to share?”

“Nice try.”

He wasn’t trying to do anything. Not yet. “I’m only curious, Hedwig. I have the best intentions at heart.”

“Aye, the best intentions for _whom?_ ”

Smart girl.

Keeping a watchful eye on the entrance to the common room, Tom begins to study with Hedwig the rest of the hour--pausing to address the concerns and inquiries of the few students rude enough to interrupt him. He might be less annoyed by their attention if they were focused on him in their questions and worry. _Not_ on Ian.

“He’s been in the Headmaster’s office for _hours--_ Do you think he’ll be expelled?”

Not bloody likely, but it’s not like he gives a damn, “I’m not sure, I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

“Ooh, I hope you can help vouch for him! I’m sure he didn’t mean it--”

“I didn’t know you were Rosier’s fucking lapdop, Avery! Stop bitching about his wrongful imprisonment, and go bother someone who cares.”

While Tom gives his best _I’m so sorry about her, really_ look at the freckle faced girl, he internally praises Hedwig for being herself.

“You’d think he was beloved by all, by the way they talk about him, fucking knob.” She doesn’t even wait until the girl is out of earshot.

“I’m sure he has his peers and groups--Abbas and Topaz?”

“Pfft, those aren’t _friends,_ those are obligations.”

Well, _yes_ , obviously, “Don’t tell me they all _hate_ each other?”

A little shrug, “Maybe. Probably.” A moment’s hesitance, “Parents force purebloods to _befriend_ each other all the time. All this nonsense is just scum groveling on behalf of their families.”

“And you, of course, don’t grovel.”

“You’re damn fucking right I don’t.”

“Don’t have any family alliances with the Rosiers, then?”

Her nose scrunches with distaste, “Not _officially._ ”

“Unofficially, then?” His brows rise gently, eyes wide with curiosity, voice light and innocent, “You look close with Evan.”

“Yeah, what’s it to ya?”

“How defensive, Hedwig! I’m merely asking a simple question.”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to know the answer to.”

The more she pushes him away, the more he wants to know. She should know that about him by now, “Who says I’m not prepared?”

“The wetness behind your ears.”

Hm that--That stings more than he wants it to. Probably because she’s right, he’s still very much a fish out of water when it comes to wizarding affairs, much less the complicated tangles of pureblooded alliances. But after her revelation of child marriages and engagements, what could possibly be worse?

Tom makes a show of checking behind his ears with his fingertips, “Wetness? Hedwig, it’s as dry as bone back there, how can you possibly be aware of something like that?”

The look of incredulity on his classmate’s face is hard to resist laughter to--She looks torn between punching him and picking up her books and leaving, “You’re lucky you’re baby-faced, you shite, it makes your acting all the more convincing.” He’d be flattered, but he already knew that. He’d be worried, but Hedwig is smart enough to know he’s not _completely_ innocent. He’d drop the subject, but Tom never lets anything go. Ever.

“If you’re in need of someone to talk to, I hope you know I’m here.” The amount of sincerity needed in his offer almost sends him comatose. He sounds _too_ sweet. Too earnest.

But Hedwig believes him. She stares at him solidly for a few seconds, unblinking. Searching for any signs of cynicism. Of ulterior motives. Ximena gave him the same gaze the first day they met. Cautious and distrusting. When wielded by Hedwig’s hazel eyes, it feels less like an animal caught in the middle of a meal is sizing him up and more like a cornered one is debating on whether or not he’s a threat.

He likes it. Being seen as a possible threat.

A firm nod is given. Help accepted. She stays silent. Looks down at her notes and textbook and continues writing.

Tom excuses himself to dinner early to search for Ximena.

Though her schedule is still unlearned, he has gotten quite good at tracking down his senior. Her usual and preferred spots of study were long ago memorized and established as favorite spots of his own due to low traffic and near-silent atmosphere. If she wasn’t in a class, there was a high chance that Tom would know about it (he’s long learned to keep tabs on those who should be kept an eye on). Classes do not go on this late. Not being in the common room, the only place she could be is her spot in the library-- _their_ spot. Where she wept over her bracelet. Where it should have chosen _him_ as its new owner. Cursed thing. He’s starting to _hear_ things from it too. Noises and garbled nonsense. Whispers in languages unspoken by human tongue. Is it making him go mad? The matron would tell him _serves you right for being a thief…_ Would Ximena think the same?

She is there (of _course_ she is there), cheek resting on her knuckles, reading through a book he identifies as a theory on summoning. Hair tied up and eyes tired, she looks older than a girl of thirteen. More mature and refined than many of the prefects he’s met with. How sad (how ridiculous!) that such a commanding aura be broken down by something as silly as emotion. That her tears and blush and laughter erase the imperial mood of her face and stature. The only useful emotion was anger, in Tom’s opinion. It is also the emotion his classmate looks best in.

Nothing in the air stirs. She hasn’t acknowledged him.

He waits. Watching.

It takes fifteen minutes for her to look up and notice he’s there.

“Oh--Good afternoon.”

“Evening.”

A blink, she looks to her left at the tall windows, “--Ah.”

He allows a chuckle to leave him, “Lost in thought?”

“--I didn’t miss dinner, did I?”

“Not at all, I’ll walk with you to the Great Hall.” It’s really phrases and offers like _this_ that only fuel the crush rumor, but since Evan and Hedwig have pushed him to socialize with Ximena more, why not play the part? He has questions to ask, anyways. And no one’s around to hear them.

“Thank goodness, I’m famished.” Her book closes after she dogears the corner of the page she was on, it disappears in her well worn bookbag, “I’d have probably stayed here til’ midnight if you hadn’t shown up.” Ximena straightens up her robes as she stands and begins walking, wiping the tired from her eyes.

“Sounds like you know from experience.”

“Something like that.”

He anticipated her answer, and speaks at the same time as she, “Something like that?”

Her throat clears, and _something like_ fluster sinks into the air around her, “Mm. Yes.” The language of her posture closes up, she’s self conscious. “--Where you in the library long?”

“Only long enough to find you.” And linger a bit, “Was wondering where you were, none of the Gryffindors I encountered knew.” No Gryffindors were asked regarding her location, but she doesn’t have to know that.

A sudden cough, sharp and _guilty_ , “Why would--Why would they know?” A finger plays with a loose hair strand.

“You aren’t trying to build bridges between our houses?” Instead of just between her and Adam.

“--Oh, yes, right, um.” Her fingers twist twist twists her curly hair, “I guess I’ve made myself an ambassador, haven’t I?”

“Of sorts.” If that was her _true_ intention (and Tom doesn’t believe it is for a second), she should have picked Vane or a Weasley to speak to, “I think it’s admirable.”

“You do?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” His voice implies he’s hurt, “I know the sort I choose as my friends would imply otherwise,” Her talk of _brainwashing_ echoes in his memory, “but really, I think the houses being open with each other is a good thing. More resources, more chances to help each other.”

The approval in her eyes is very validating, “Good. That’s good.” Her head bobs, like she’s nodding to herself, “Really good.” Like she’s saying it to herself. Something about it bothers him. She should come back to Earth and pay attention to him.

“Any luck with your search?” The bracelet had been left in his bedside drawer.

“Somewhat.” The subtle spike in frustration isn’t missed, in her voice nor in her face, “I’ve been doing some reading.” What else is new?

He prods, “Tracking spells?”

A bitter chuff, “It’s a little late for something like that.” Thank Merlin, “I’ve been looking at types of magical bonds.”

“Contracts?”

“More or less, yes.” Her mouth draws a thin line as the two walk into the Great Hall, heading towards the Slytherin tables, “It’s hard to translate to Englis--” A sudden stop, though her pace doesn’t lessen, “--Why is everyone staring?”

“Hm?” He hadn’t noticed, but of course someone like her would. The few dozen nearby faces turned in their direction aren’t malicious, but rather in awe and concerned. They are the faces of their Dueling Club peers.

“It’s not you,” Not this time, “it’s me they’re staring at.” This, he says in the most reassuring way possible, though really he was showing off. He wants her to ask why--To want to know the details.

A sigh of relief as they sit down, though her posture does not relax--When her books are placed to the side, a lovely hot platter of butterflied fish dressed with vegetables and red sauce blinks into existence. Noted is her pause before praying: is she thinking about where this food came from? Where the knowledge of the recipe originated?

When her hands come apart and she reaches for the butter dish, she continues her talk, “Why are they staring at you?” He can practically _hear_ the urge to scooch away from him to avoid the attention by proxy.

“Not privy to the gossip circles today?”

“I’ve been studying all afternoon, but I think I heard your name in passing a few times.” She seasons the cod on her plate, “Dueling Club started today, right?”

Good, she brought it up first. Technically. “Yes, it did.” He replies matter of factly, “I won my first duel.” Eyes to the side, he watches for a reaction.

“Mm. Congratulations.” Her hand covers her mouth (half full), “Sorry I wasn’t there, the, uh, Gryffindor quidditch tryouts were today--Who was it against?”

“I forgive you.” Lie. “Ian Rosier.”

Her face goes sour, “He joined again?”

“It looks like he’s here to stay,” Despite the humiliation Tom delt him. Heh. “he probably wants revenge now.”

“He lost that badly?”

“I’d like to think I did quick work of him.” He cuts his food nonchalantly, looking down at his plate.

“Was he angry?”

“Furious.” Tom’s not actually sure he’s ever seen anyone that mad before, “Looked like a bull going straight for the red cape of a matador.” He decides not to go with the ‘I was scared’ tone, but rather the ‘he really was _so_ pathetic’ one, “I cut him off at his last spell.”

“What was it?”

“Not sure, unfortunately, he looked rather _eager_ to use it. Started with a _crou--sh_ sound.” He chews his turkey thoughtfully, “Willow was very hostile about it, but I think that was just because he was being too aggressive with someone a year younger. Even said he could have gone to _Azkaban_ for it.”

“. . .”

“--Ximena?”

He turns his head and finds her still. Dead eyed. As if his words had turned her into some sort of tense, stoic statue. Her hands, he notes with extreme interest, are balled up tightly into fists. They’re trembling.

Is she...

“ _Ximena?_ ” Tom tries not to seem too excited at the prospect, nor too perturbed; the magical signature she works so hard at concealing is bubbling up from darkness. Tempting. The spice from her dish stings his nose as he breathes in, _“Ximena, are you alright?”_

“I’m fine.”

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Perfectly.”_

What was the damn spell Ian wanted to use on him? She knows, he _knows_ she knows, and it’s something nasty. Dark. Evil. A jinx or a hex or a curse. And she’s absolutely fuming that it was almost used on him. How delightful.

 ** _“Don’t interact with Rosier again.”_ ** A command. The authority in her voice is as new to him as was the anger. He resists the urge to quirk an eyebrow ( _nobody_ tells him what to do), and simply accepts Ximena’s _request._ For now.

Concern is good. It’s a claim. She’s very clearly (publically) on his side. A few students have glanced over at her little outburst, and soon enough when _they_ dip into the gossip pool, they will know why. They will know the context.

The problem, of course, is that this concern probably comes from her seeing him as a helpless little boy. As if! If only she could have _seen_ him--His magical prowess and control was flawless. No scared little orphan can do what he can. Is she was there, she would _get it._ That he’s meant for something greater. That Rosier was only an ant in his way.

“Understood.” A pause, and he eyes her out of the corner of his periphery, “Ximena, can you tell me where I could get nigella seeds? It’s for an assignment in potions...”

-

Tom has long since concluded that the reason his popularity is soaring isn’t because of how great he was in his first duel, but instead because he almost had something called an _Unforgivable_ almost cast on him. He heard it in Hedwig’s voice when she confronted him about it. He sees it in Ximena’s eyes when she shields him with her body every time Ian so much as _glares_ at him (he can handle himself against someone like him, thank you very much). It’s an insult to the display of power he showed to his schoolmates in the dueling hall, but so be it--He knows he can twist the chatterings to be about how talented he is to be able to survive an attempted casting.

Asking what an Unforgivable was, however, is out of the question--He should know, after all. Hedwig herself said so-- _implied_ so. This knowledge is only further enforced in his brain as he finds nothing on them in any of his textbooks nor in the library. Censorship is his first instinct, but really, if the spell is as _dangerous_ as the nickname entails it to be, it is probably for the best that no talentless idiot could accidently get his hands on it.

So what of the incredibly skillful wizards like him?

They get someone they can play into not spilling the secret.

Nemesis is all too happy to accompany him back down to the Slytherin common room (and all too comfortable with sticking much too close to him--The dungeons are always upsettingly drafty.) No, she does not hang on his sleeve and drool or stare at him like it seems like a lot of other students do with the object of their affections, but he's so... _aware._ Of her. It makes him feel like she's staring at him through a display glass--Or rather, like a cake on a stand on her kitchen counter that she was told she couldn't touch.

Her upper arm brushes against his, and his robes aren't thick enough. He smiles through it, "It was quite an eventful meeting."

“I wish I could have joined in! I’m sure it was something to remember, but it’s not really an interest of mine.” Nemesis’ disposition could rival the sun.

“You’ve never thought of joining before?”

“Oh no,” She looks down at her feet, “proper pureblooded girls do not _duel._ ” A sigh, resigned and accepting, “Mother made that perfectly clear.”

“How absurd.” He’s beginning to see why Nemesis is so _misguided._ He wonders if his head would be as equally filled with nonsense had his own mother… “You’re better than half the boys in Defence Against The Dark Arts.”

The smile she gives him is pained, but flattered, “You think so?”

“Humility doesn’t suit you.”

That got her. Her face flinches, but she laughs it off, “You’re better at catching my lies than my mother.”

It takes a liar to know one, “Why are there other pureblooded girls in Dueling Club if it’s not proper?”

“What’s proper in one country isn’t in others...Mother is Spanish. She has very...old fashioned traditions.”

In Tom's eyes, _all_ pureblooded beliefs were obviously old fashioned...Nemesis' mother was probably stuck somewhere in the Bronze Age, then. Old bat. He plays the neutral and concerned card, “I’m sure there’s a method to her madness.”

Nemesis giggles, “You know Hamlet?”

 _That_ catches him off guard. Sends him violently back into a memory he thought forgotten, “...Yes,” he had snuck into a picture show when he was young--younger than he is, of course. Nine years old. He had an awful haircut and had injured the damned caretaker who had given it to him (without his hands, of course, he was performing magic even then), before proceeding to run away from any punishment they could dole out. A talkie was playing. From India[1]. The theater was dark and cold, but it was easy to go unseen. To steal popcorn and eat his fill of grain for the week. The tale thrilled him. Ignited his imagination. If he were to shut his eyes and concentrate, he’s sure he could still feel the crunching snack between his teeth and the gasps from the audience as Hamlet dueled his uncle. He could still smell the mothballs and dusty corner in which he sat himself for the better part of two hours. There was an older girl sitting a few rows in front with a red balloon who kept bopping it up and down and up and down so much it gave him a terrible headache and he popped it violently. A theater worker he charmed into thinking he wasn’t there by maintaining eye contact with him.

Within less than a second, he’s snapped back to the present by his classmate’s voice, “I didn’t know! Do Muggles know about Shakespeare? I remember learning that they knew what _dragons_ were and feeling like my reality was shattered.”

“...How do wizards know about Shakespeare?” He remembers his ex guide thinking his Hallowe’en costume was someone from The Bard’s plays...He had brushed it off then, because who _hasn’t_ heard of Shakespeare?

“He was a wizard, of course!”

That...sounds wrong. More than wrong. In many ways. But he drops it. It doesn’t matter right now. He places his hands behind his back and nods, accepting her words, “I see.” He licks his lips, searching for a way to get back on topic--

“I’d like to speak with you about something, actually.” Nemesis plays with a stray strand of hair, curling it around her finger in a manner that he senses she practiced in front of a mirror for. Her magic, flurrying and rustling near him like a squall, leaves him _dreading_ what was inevitably going to come out of her mouth: some sort of _confession._ Ugh. Why couldn’t Nemesis have some damn _sense_ like Hedwig? He’s never seen nor heard her fawn over boys. More girls should be like Hedwig.

“Oh?” But he has to play along, tilt his pretty little head and smile cluelessly like he wasn’t about to stomp down on his classmate’s heart.

But he never gets the chance.

The last thing he hears before hissing pain is an attack:

_“Infido!”_

Then: the familiar buzz of a protego--It comes strongly and just a little too late. The first spell cuts through the top of his left ear, grazing gently and ripping violently all at once, spurting forth his blood and raising up burning pain. The second spell, he reckons, saves his head.

Nemesis screams, shrill and terrified, hand covering her mouth and hesitating before Tom’s figure. He turns around, away from Nemesis and onto the scene before him.

Her back, so familiar, is all he sees at first: her robes swishing dramatically and curly hair seeming to fill with static and energy. Serpentine wand out, firm and threatening. Still and confident. The second thing he sees is Ian, gawking and fuming _madly,_ eyes wide open like a beast.

Then noticed is her _magic:_ furiously wild and thrashing like violent waves. A hundred shades of dangerous energy that calls out to him like bells. What he senses last is her voice: no longer familiar and meek, but dripping a dangerous, venomous tone that pricks goosepimples on the back of his neck,

**_“Don't touch him.”_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The movie Tom saw was Khoon Ka Khoon, the first feature film adaptation of Hamlet.
> 
> Mm, been meaning to ask (the like...2½ of you who leave comments, cries): how does Ximena’s personality/characterization come off as? I already know her secrets/feelings/backstory/motivations and how she’s going to grow in the future (and so does Lion to a point), so it’s easy for us to see her as like...a fleshed out character. But what about y’all? Does she come off as boring or bland? I know the POV is biased, but eh, I’m curious.
> 
> Also, I’ve succumbed to roleplaying not just Ximena, but also Hedwig, Yami, Nemesis, and Tom (this one under pressure from Lion) on tumblr. It’s fun. We should write together if you’re into that.


	13. Righteous/Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom learns what a real fight looks like.

Cw: racism nonsense from a 13 year old

-

Playground brawls are common at Wool’s. It’s almost impossible to house so many troubled children in such a small space without a fight or six breaking out every week. The cause of such spats are, of course, stupid: refusal to share the communal toys, name calling, accusations of adoption sabotage...Tom suspects most of the reasons didn’t really matter, and that the other children are just savages. Asserting your dominance through messy, physical violence is barbaric, ~~and he doesn’t just think that because he was always too scrawny to do so himself.~~ Dominance should be asserted through authority. The naturally strong don’t need to show off. They simply are. (If the weaklings around them are too stupid to realize that, well, then that could be a mild exception but--)He, himself, doesn’t release his anger in such ways. He hones it. Bides his time.

Occasionally, it’ll come out anyways. Only in his magic, of course. Physical violence is so _Muggle._ He’s better than that now. Or perhaps always was.

He has not seen a playground brawl at Hogwarts.

Rules are stricter here. Punishments more harsh. The most public a fight gets is a shove or a mild expeliarmus--The _more_ public a fight gets, the less likely it’s legitimate. Real rumbles take place in the dark. It’s why Katux always tried to subdue him in empty hallways and classrooms. It’s why Tom hasn’t gotten caught giving them a taste of their own medicine. And why he never will.

So back to what is happening before his eyes:

Opposite forces of hesitation and voracity crack and cannon into each other like thunder and sea: a hurricane of conflicting emotions attempting to swallow the other. A splendid war of the self. All bottled within his classmate’s magical signature only a few mere feet before him. The cold temperature of her aura driving the hair on his skin upwards in alarm.

Ian’s magic flares up: the feeling of crushed earth and hot air popping in the area around him. It’s absolutely nothing like the spar the two of them had only yesterday: the spark of anger then only produced a chisp of manifestation. A blip on Tom’s radar.

The magical signatures meet, and Tom swears he can hear his own blood pulsing through his head. His heartbeat is in his skull and banging against the sides. He's in danger. _They're_ in danger. Where is his mask? The evacuation route? Will sirens ring in Hogwarts?

 _“Get a professor.”_ Ximena’s voice is clear and matronly like. From beside him, though it feels like kilometers away, Nemesis seizes up before running off out of the dungeons area. It shouldn’t be long before Slughorn shows up, right? Or even--

_Dumbledore._

Tom takes his vice grip off his wand. He remains cradling his cut up ear, wincing when he realizes the side of his head was sliced as well. It’s not gushing, but it is bleeding. He presses the sleeve of his robe hard against his wound--He has to apply pressure, right? 

“What’s this, Riddle? Need a big burnt brutish cockroach to protect you?” Ian sizes Ximena up carefully, undoubtedly recognizing her, but _undoubtedly_ failing to recall any of her sparring quirks, “She your girlfriend, now?”

Though he cannot see her face, her energy shimmers and quakes at Ian’ taunts--A bottled hurricane. He wishes he could see it. Smell it. Hear it. Instead he has to be satisfied with just the simple sensation of _sensing._ He’s sure her face shows nothing, though, because Ian doesn’t have a satisfied look on his.

“Baubillious!” White hot sparks emerge from Ian’s wand, bright enough to blind, Tom has to squint his eyes to keep his retinas from burning--He would lift his over sleeve to fully block, but he does not want to miss this.

And again, as in the duel with Hedwig, Ximena does not yell. But she mutters, under her breath, “ _Chhel,_ ” and dark night emits from her wand, consuming the light from Ian’s spell. A foreign, but obvious counter--And it’s not at all what causes Tom to pause: her magic was on the move much before she uttered the spell. As if saying the words was just for show. An afterthought.

A slicing hex comes at her. The same one used on him. Ximena blocks the attempt with a flick of her wrist and the spell hits the wall beside them, causing frighteningly deep gashes. A refined form. Not trained like Ian’s, but somehow natural. The magic guides her, not the other way around--or maybe that thought was wrong, considering how much she’s keeping her magic at bay. It can almost _physically_ touch him as he sits there behind her, bubbling with anticipation.

More spells hurl at her (or them? Ian’s aim can’t be _that_ bad--) in rapid succession, reminiscent of Tom’s own duel with Ian. Her magic pricks out selectively as she blocks and counter-curses: a poised snake striking with heavy restraint. She doesn’t want to hurt him. At least, not in a way that will incriminate her. He understands. Expulsion is an ever hanging threat swinging above their heads like a pendulum. 

Her opponent does not take this well. Ian speaks again, though Tom knows it is once more directed at him, “You’re rubbing elbows with all the worthy wizards well...Got yourself a lowblood to have on the side just like all the proper highbloods, is that right?” He laughs, giving a head gesture to Ximena, who remains still and _waiting_ , “That’s all you are, you know? No better than a mudblood slag, there to sit pretty, take what you can get, and be grateful for the generous amount of coc--”

For all his talking (and his big ugly mouth), Ian really wasn’t good at _trash_ talking. It’s a silly thought to have, as the fire spits it’s way out of Ximena’s wand and onto the other boy’s face, but it’s an honest one. Ian rambles his feelings, keeps them hidden at the very surface of his skin. He should learn to keep them down, well below. It might have saved him. Ximena does not open her mouth to cast this spell, but she doesn’t need to in order for Tom to recognise it. The burning air and explosive flames, elegant in their form and violent in their path...Her confrigo curse is perfect. Impassioned, uncontrolled, and fueled by nothing but Ximena’s anger. It’s when he sees it unleashed that Tom realizes she’s holding back. Her magic isn’t simply just _kept at bay,_ it’s being desperately bottled. Held tightly by her own fists if it were possible.

The scream from Ian is something he’ll never forget in his life.

This isn’t a duel. This is nothing like the staged, little play spars displayed in the club hall. This isn’t a swabble. This is a _fight_. A real one.

Ian’s expensive robe, singed away revealing a grossly burned collar and shoulder, looks little more than tattered rags--of lesser quality than Tom’s, even. It flutters with the power from his magic manifesting around him, as if there were a gale in the corridor, “Expulso!”

Imitator. Fire with fire, though Ian’s is a deceivingly cold blue. It pops his ears and crackles through the small space between Ian and Ximena. Explosions. _He could help here._ He could whip out his wand and send a protego maxima to help and it wouldn’t incriminate him. He doesn’t. He can’t interrupt their duel. By standard rules or otherwise. Would that stupid ancient law apply to this? It wasn’t official, they didn’t bow, Ian attacked _him_ , not her so did _she_ interrupt their own duel…? He can't think he can't _think_ , what does he do? What should he do? He should run. Away. Far away. Save his skin. Curl up and hide. The train, _he needs to get on the train--_

A heavy hum vibrates in his pocket. 

Her head turns so sharply, he’s sure she has whiplash, to look down at him in absolute shock and bemusement--The magic from the bracelet is thick and tingling. It rumbles and blows out like a bubble, eager and desperate to meet back with Ximena’s magic. He makes the mistake of making eye contact with her in the few milliseconds before the beaded bracelet saves their skin from melting off, and he sees himself in her eyes. Hurt. Afraid. Vulnerable. He sees her, too, then. Hurt. Afraid. Vulnerable.

Shit.

The fire parts around them as if there were a barrier unseen, the same way Hedwig’s attacks were barred when she dueled Ximena. And he understands. _She_ understands.

The humming stops. The attacks do not.

Luckily, Ximena isn’t an idiot. What sounds like the word _shell_ leaves her lips and Tom feels and sees themselves being enveloped in an armored cocoon that rises up from the ground like an enclosing flower--pink and translucent [1]. The protective arms of the spell enclose. He feels safe. Right. The violent explosions are muffled as they bend around the shield formed, as if they were nothing but rain drops. They could probably stay here until--

Ximena does not stop.

She flicks her wand again like it were a sword deflecting another and Ian’s wand flies obediently into her free hand.

Ian does not stop.

Ian curses at her, through language and not magic, and the volatile emotions swimming in his magic manage to build up a violent gush of wind in the corridor. His wandless magic isn’t poised or controlled, it’s like watching someone having a spasm try to write their name.

Her next move should be a mimblewimble spell. A full body-bind curse. Tom waits eagerly for her to raise her wand, but it never happens. She tosses the two wands behind her at Tom (they hit him on the forehead) and--

Ximena _tackles_ Ian. Gets one. Two. Five good hits in before he wises up and places his arms in front of him for protection. The fool doesn’t even know how to fight back without his wand. He’s useless. Screaming expletives at Ximena as if that would do anything. His burn wounds are still fresh and bleeding, and the hard hits and scratches she lands on him only make it worse. She is a child. Fighting and hurting another child. It’s more passionate than the schoolyard brawls he’s seen in his early childhood, but it is still a schoolyard brawl. There’s blood on her hands. Anger in her eyes. It suits her.

His eyelids draw heavy--Shit, how much blood has left him? Why didn’t anyone teach him a blood clotting spell? A scabbing one? His lungs are made out of rusted iron, his head is throbbing--

Eager footsteps approach. He feels a magic he’s never (consciously) felt before. A booming golden magic that drums triumphantly down the hall behind him like an entire herd of elephants. It feels like fire and spirit. He knows who the magic belongs to before he looks.

_Dumbledore._

-

What Tom most enjoys about Ximena, he concludes, as the mediwitch finishes up his bandages in the hospital wing, is that she doesn’t _cling._ She considers him a friend now, he’s sure, and she hasn’t not once initiated something as vulgar as a hug or a friendly pat on the back. Ximena has manners. It’s delightful. As if she knows not to touch him. That he’s untouchable.

Nemesis has not gotten this message yet. She sits pretty and attentive at his side, _staring_ at him with such pity it makes him sick. She’s too close. Her hands are too close. Can’t Madam Belfast see she’s bothering him? Crowding him? Useless woman! Put on his bandages, feed him the proper medicine, and _get rid of--_

“How are you feeling?”

He pops on the sensitive, woobie eyes, and a brave chin tilt forward, “I’ve had worse.”

She thinks he’s putting up a valiant act. He isn’t. “I can’t believe he _did_ that, I...I’ve never seen him so…” A sigh, “What on earth could have possessed him?”

Jealousy. Truth. Revenge. Inadequacy. Envy. Hysteria. Rage. Insecurity. Reality. All ideas Tom has had. He has more too--Does a reason really matter? He did what he did. And he suffered the consequences of it. Sadly not at his hands but--

“...What do you think will happen to Rosier?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing?_ ”

Her head shakes, “A slap on the wrist, I’m sure. The Rosiers are an old family, and they have a lot of weight in the legal system.”

Tom scowls, “What right does the Wizengamot have to interfere with Hogwarts?”

“--You are not wrong, but…” She picks at her nails, “...Hogwarts is where the majority of magical children go for their education in this part of the world...You can imagine how important it is for the richer families to have their say.” An apologetic look, as if this were somehow her fault, “Even if one of theirs attacked another student.”

Pathetic. To have Hogwarts held back by such nonsense is infuriating. Insulting. Dippet is cravenous. How much money is enough to keep justice from being served? Ian is an idiot. Attacking him so openly in front of another student ( _one he didn’t even incapacitate before she was able to alert a teacher_ ), possibly even attempting to…

“What’s an Unforgivable?”

He looks at Nemesis not with the look of a naive little puppy (as he had planned before all this nonsense), but with a look of fierce determination. He has a right to know what was almost done to him--A right to know what spell could land a _child_ in prison at the drop of a hat. A curse that, when casted by the right person, wields no consequences. 

She gulps, blinking, searching for the proper words...As if the very subject were taboo, “An Unforgivable is...A truly unforgivable thing, Tom.” He gathered as much, but as she says it, the weight of her words presses down on him. He doesn’t feel the urge to roll his eyes at her explanation, “Casting one...It _does things_ to your magical core. To your soul.” Her palm presses flat on her chest, while the other grips his own. He resists recoiling back in favor of having her continue, “They are the darkest, ugliest magic, Tom. To think that one was almost done on you so _casually…_ ” Ugh, is she going to cry?

Tom puts on his best reassuring face, “But it wasn’t.” He put a stopper on it before anything could happen--With a damn tickle hex, of all things. Is that curse really so powerful if he was able to avoid it with a simple spell? “Whatever _Unforgivable_ it was, it was never cast.” Which is a reason they’ll argue in Ian’s favor for not expelling him, sadly, “I never even got to hear the incantation. Not fully.”

Her hand squeezes his. Awful. “I can venture a guess which one it was--There’s only two.”

“ _Just_ two?” Just two spells out of all the countless ones in the wizarding world are considered soul tainting? The darkest, ugliest magic? Unforgivable?

“Yes--And, of course, if the rumors I hear are true, it was probably, um,” There’s no wand in her hand, and her magic is not primed at the ready to cast, yet she hesitates to speak the name. As if saying it would bring it into existence, “It’s a curse of pain. The most...The most excruciating pain you could ever go through…” Here, her voice dips down into a whisper, “Don’t...You didn’t hear this from me, but...A lot of the old families use it to discipline their children and subservients.” His surprise must show on his face, because she adds on very quickly: “Not my family! No, never,” Her long hair swishes with her head as she shakes it, “I mean...The older families who have a bit of a...blood obsession.” Ah. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian didn’t know the extent of what he was doing...Not that I’m defending him! I just--”

Tom raises his hand for her to stop, releasing it from her uncomfortable hold, “I understand, Nemesis.” Really, he doesn’t: if the curse was so terrible, then nothing excuses Ian for wanting to inflict it upon Tom. Daft idiot should know better. Even if it’s apparently used on him by his own mother, “It explains why someone so...callow knew about that sort of spell.” Especially before he managed to learn about it. Pureblood upbringing really does have a worthwhile advantage--It’s a bit too late for him to be adopted, though.

His voice raises again, “What do you think will happen to Ximena?”

“--Oh,” Her face grows grim.

Tom wonders how jealousy works in Nemesis' mind. He was under the impression that girls are catty and attack each other at every passing moment, moreso if the object of jealousy was a boy. But there's no malice or smug satisfaction in his classmate's eyes. Nemesis appears genuinely worried and uncertain about Ximena's fate. There's no way she's that great of an actress. Are they friends now?

He lifts his chin, tilts his head.

“The situation really is complicated isn’t it?” Not really. Ian was stupid enough to attack a student and should be punished. Ximena acted in defense. Cut and dry. “I’m not sure...If she were from a noble house, then there would perhaps be some sort of reparations… maybe feuding…? It’s been a while since something like this has happened at Hogwarts.” 

Tom resists snorting, because things like this _definitely_ happen often, just in the shadows, “We broke the peace, then?”

His attempt at lightening the mood fails. Nemesis sighs, “I think...The Rosiers will want to keep this sort of thing quiet, at best. If Ian were a Lestrange or, Hectate forbid, a _Flint..._ Then I think Lane’s life would be in danger. The least they can do is demand expulsion, at this point.”

Christ. Thank Merlin he didn’t raise his wand against Ian. He could not handle the weight of potential expulsion on his shoulders. Can Ximena? Does her threat of expulsion scare her? ~~Scare him?~~  She had wanted to leave, had said this place was more of a prison than a haven. But she can’t have _meant_ it, right? Not wholly? Leaving Hogwarts permanently (prematurely) would rightfully traumatize any child. Not just him.

“And at worse?”

She hesitates, “A trial, perhaps...Though, that would just attract attention to the fact that the Rosiers had a foreign foundling best one of their own to the point of scarring. Rosiers don’t like public spectacles. We’re lucky he isn’t their heir.” 

Really? Could have fooled him with how sensationalist Druella is--How melodramatic _all_ the Rosiers were...Even Evan. But then again, all the Rosiers he’s met are children. All the Rosiers at Hogwarts are children. He really can’t wait until they’re grown and past such nonsense.

“Really, Lane’s lack of bloodclaim is a blessing and a curse: I imagine she’d be in hotter water if she were a confirmed Muggleborn, they don’t do very well in court.”

“No, I expect not with this current Wizengamot.” People talk, Nemesis notwithstanding, and they _especially_ love talking about things they heard their parents talking about, “Was it always like this?” This bad? This easy?

Nemesis leans over again, and then recoils back when she sees him flinch purposefully, “Some families like the Malfoys would have you believe that it was, but that’s all rubbish.” Her voice is down to a whisper again, as if what she was speaking was heresy, “They’ve kicked all the witches out of the Wizengamot, but we’ve had plenty of witches as minister for magic. A good handful of half-bloods too--Not all from old or rich families either.”

He refrains from replying, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Nemesis doesn’t need to know where he stands just yet.

“It wasn’t until--” Her mouth opens and closes, “It must have been twenty, thirty years ago? This...There was this horrendous resurfacing of _Purism_. My grandfather said it’s the worst it’s been in years...” Her eyes catch the torch light coming in through the open doors, and Tom sees gold. There’s still a small splatter of his blood dried on her cheek. In that moment, he sees that she’s actually quite pretty, in the way that most people would define beauty _,_ “You know I don’t like talking about these sort of things with our housemates...All these picketers and lobbyists are their parents and aunts and uncles!”

Oh Tom knows exactly what she means. It’s not a good look. It’s not proper social etiquette. It’s not enough to make Nemesis grow a spine. Shame. “I see.” His head throbs, and it’s not just his wound.

“It didn’t...I didn’t...I thought maybe my uncle would change things as minister, but…” But he was a cravenous insect. No better than Chamberlain. “It’s so hard, Tom. Everyone is such a vulture, only looking out for their own interests…” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “I sat in on a trial during the summer, some Muggleborn accused of thievery and--Sweet Hectate, they were merciless. It was as if he had murdered children! A capital punishment for a minimal offense, all for his blood!” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “It was so normal, I couldn’t stand it...And he...my own uncle, the _Prime Minister for Magic_...He did nothing. He was content. All his power and influence for what?” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “My father, he tries, he really does, but it’s all for nothing. They don’t listen.” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then.

A moment passes, and he decides against patting Nemesis on the back of her hand, lest she get ideas. Instead, he gives a soft sigh (genuine) and pauses to think about the right words to say (fake, it’s so easy to come up with what Nemesis wants to hear), “This will pass. Resurgences always happen in history, even with Muggles. It will pass.”

Maybe it’s his voice or the atmosphere or her vulnerability, but she looks at him and nods once. Smiles. She believes him. His words are truth to her because he has spoken them.

At last! Madam Belfast has come to shoo Nemesis away, it’s late and _Mr. Riddle needs all the rest he can get._ Nemesis looks absolutely heartbroken that she must tear herself from his side, but leaves with a soft goodbye. When she reaches for his hand, he pulls it away. He wishes her goodnight with a smile on his face, thoughts lingering on their conversation.

What he should have said, what he wanted to say, was ‘ _Do something about it.’_ Stop crying. Stop grousing. You’re no better than the moneybags who pull sad faces at him and the other children at Wool’s, lament their status in this life, and then spare tuppence and ignore them until Christmas or Easter. He wants to shake her. Throw the pumpkin pasty on his dinner tray at her retreating form. He does not. It would be a waste of a good pumpkin pasty.

He’s alone in the hospital wing.

Ian was transferred to St. Mungo’s at the insistence of his parents: two stern, upper-lipped witches who reminded Tom a little too closely to some of the prospective parents that toured Wool’s. They skimmed over his own injuries, and looked at their son with nothing but controlled contempt. He only saw them for a whisper of a moment, but the act of taking Ian away from him was a kind enough gesture to leave a good impression on Tom: he’s not sure how he could have handled his whining. Or how gruesome his injuries looked to be. Madam Belfast can cast all the sweet scent spells she wants, but nothing can take the smell of burnt flesh out of his nose.

Ugh! He’s remembering it so explicitly, he scours for a better memory from the last few hours: the spells themselves. Such exquisite dark magicks being performed before him, unlike anything he’s seen. Nothing like the spars in Dueling Club and DADA, and eons ahead of the duel between Hedwig and Ximena...It felt _good._ Indulgent and cozy, like the hot chocolate he had shared with the witch last January. Sweet, almost, though he did not taste anything (can he taste magic? Is that possible?) He wants to wrap himself in a blanket of that darkness and sleep. 

The bracelet remains with him, for now: tucked securely in his robe pocket (did he place it there this morning? He could have _sworn_ it was left in his bedside table), and growing heavier by the hour. She knows. There’s no way she doesn’t know. The extent to what she knows is up in the air...how long he’s had it, _how_ he got it, if he was intent on keeping it...No the...The way she _looked_ at him...He didn’t like it. That look is reserved for the despicable swine at the orphanage. When he takes their things, and makes them pay. The look that _they_ give him. Rightfully. Not...not her. Not to him. He’s meant to stay the Golden Boy here at Hogwarts. Beloved. Would she tell? Will everyone listen to her? Will this be what Dumbledore uses as definite proof that Tom hasn’t and cannot change?

He’s going to have to give it back--Yes, he is...He has to. It’s the only way to salvage the situation. His image. Their relationship. Her trust.

Fuck.

He needs more time, _he had a plan._ Or at least half of one. Could he pin the whole thing on Ian? Yes yes, he took it back from Ian and got found out. Caught. He’ll weave a tale of having suspected Ian for weeks before valiantly sneaking into the third year boys’ dormitory and investigating for himself and--Lo! He found the bracelet, sealed with some sort of protection charm that he disarmed without any fuss because Ian is patheticly untalented but also Tom is miraculously skilled. He’ll slip out unnoticed but then! It’s so hard to find Ximena, he couldn’t have gone straight to her! Boys aren’t allowed in the girl’s dormitory, so he can’t place it with her things. And no no no, he absolutely could not hand it over to a third year Slytherin girl, it’s too personal a thing. Too precious. Only he could have given it back, he was the only one she told about having it missing.

Teeth bite down hard on his bottom lip the more he thinks about it. Does she trust him enough to ignore that burst of magic that so obviously came from his person? Friendship takes precedence over evidence, if radio has taught him anything. Things were proven and felt with _the heart_ rather than paper trails and eyewitnesses (all of whom turned out to be falsified in the end), and based on the interactions he’s seen between friends his whole life, it has to apply to reality too. Ximena will believe him because she will feel it in her heart that he is her friend and would never absolutely do something like that. Nevermind silly things like induction.

A flutter of wings is heard just outside the window behind him, and he stills, expecting a tapping at the glass and hearing nothing of the sort. Just silence. Just owls. No crows. He still doesn’t turn around to look. Just in case. In case of what? He doesn’t know.

The bracelet talks again. Not _talks_ , but mutters. Sputters and utters and putters out that strange not-language in whispers: a conch shell held to his ear. He’s sure if maybe he concentrates on it, that he can figure out at least a mood or tone, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to shake it out like he does to ringing in his head.

He shuts his eyes

When he opens them, he is in a room he has never been in, but he knows it’s Ximena’s. The air is grey and damp, and the sad rays of the sun that manage to make it inside the room are dull and lifeless. He sees dust flying in the air. If he exhales, it flurries like a squall. The space is colorless. Plain. There is a grey rug underneath him. Cotton. Old. A weathered dresser to his left made of dark wood and kept neat. A bible rests on top next to a glass, single flower vase with that strange flower from the year before that colonized the fields of Hogwarts. It’s fully in bloom. White. Her small bed has one woven, moth eaten beige blanket and a sad, flattened pillow with minimal but obvious stains. No, it’s not flattened completely. There’s something inside--Underneath? Round and small like a baked bun, or a nest. A spiral. He reaches out, to touch and take.

Something else draws his eyes instead.

To the right of the bed is a small table and lamp, a seashell blue color. There’s another little black book on top. A black so deep, he swears it’s made of shadow. Dark and alluring. He picks it up, turns it over, and knows that it belongs to him. When he opens it, her writing is on the inside instead. It’s a diary. His eyes run over words and dates eagerly, but absorb nothing. He is reading but his brain is not processing anything until he reaches the last page she wrote in. This, he remembers:

Ximena plays with her name. Writes it a million times over, each time with a different family name attached to the end. Camacho. García. Muñoz. Rivera. She says none of them sound right. Cruz. Díaz. Fuentes. They all sound as wrong as Lane does. Ortega. Leyva. Guerrero. But she’d prefer either one of them anyday. Goméz. Carpintero. Salinas. A name is a claim: proof that you belong somewhere. Calderón. Gonzaléz. Martínez. They’re all far away names, from across the ocean. Juan. Sanchez. Villa. But not from Spain, the voice that reads them in his head speaks in a way that tells him these names are further away.

He writes with a pen that was not there before. The matron’s nice ballpoint pen that he doesn’t take to school for fear of being labeled as a Muggle lover. He writes some new names down for her; closer names: Zabini. Potter. Shafiq. And then, even closer: Flint. Lestrange. Black. Why can’t she be a part of their families? Close to England. ~~To him.~~  If he were friends with a _long lost_ Black, imagine how much easier his path would become. Two long lost children born from greatness, straight out of a classical story. A hero myth. His ex mentor said so himself, he could be anybody. _They_ could be anybody.

\--And then, temptation seizes him. 

He writes something blasphemous. Indulgent. Iniquitous. Something that will bond them together in blood and water.

Behind him, though he does not know how he knows, the flower turns red.

When he wakes up, the hospital wing is pale blue in the light of the dawn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I’m describing a Shell spell from the FFVIII game!
> 
> Hehheh, we come to our first bit of canon divergence...there’s only 2 Unforgivables u.u for a reason, of course. I’d like to expand more on my choices and why I make them, but instead of crowding the author’s notes, I’ll write in Quotev journals. Username is Khatun in case you wanna read them.
> 
> Originally, this was going to be the shortest chapter at 2 pages depicting only a short fight before Dumbledore’s arrival, but a lovely (and much needed) review from theaspiringcynic honestly motivated me to churn out more details in the duel and the aftermath...Comment on your favourite stories, guys, it makes author’s days.


	14. Rumor/Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom learns that the grapevine is thick

Evan is his first visitor. When Tom turns his head after waking up, he sees him sitting beside his bed, reading a golden book. There’s a small package of what he assumes to be sweets on the table next to them.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Evan, it’s good to see you too.”

The book is closed and settled down on his lap, Tom can’t read the title, “Did my cousin do that to you?”

The bandages feel fused to his wounds, and even though they cover said wounds, he knows they must look impressive, “He took me by surprise.”

Evan sneers, “Ian has always been a sniveling milksop, even when we were children.” 

Maybe it’s the heavy medicine still lingering, but Tom speaks before thinking, “Are you not children now?”

He purses his lips, sucks his teeth, “All purebloods grow up when they turn eleven.”

Tom has nothing to say to that.

“You’re not here to avenge him, then?”

“Don’t be stupid, Tom, it doesn’t suit you.” Well excuse him, Evan, “Read the atmosphere.”

It’s a little hard with the potion Madam Belfast gave him. His head feels heavy, and his dream hasn’t completely left his conscious yet, “You’re picking sides.”

“Merlin, Tom, you don’t need to state it so _clearly_ , you’re speaking like a Gryffindor.” He crosses his legs and stands up straighter, “Your head must have been struck harder than I thought.”

Any other time, his impudence would have made Tom put Evan on his shortlist for reprisal, but now it only amuses him, “Well he cut into my head, so you’re not incorrect.”

“ _Circe._ ” Evan swears, rolling his eyes, “We’re lucky Lane adopted her mother hen persona after you told her what happened in Dueling Club. Or else we might be attending your wake.”

He seizes up, stiff at the thought. Dead. Cold in the ground in a pauper’s grave. Insects crawling in his hair and jaw and rib cage. Rotting. Unnatural. Horrible. He pushes that idea away. Far away. Forgotten.

Evan doesn’t notice. He continues talking, “Didn’t think she had it in her.” He makes purposeful eye contact, “Of course, all _I_ know is her last spell used.”

He opens his mouth to ask how he knows, but then he remembers who his family is.

“Auntie and Uncle were furious. I think Ian would have been better off getting punished by Lane.”

“...They’re not angry at her?”

Evan shrugs, “As angry as they would be at a wild redcap attacking their provoking son. Their words, not mine.” Figures. Evan is an ass, but wouldn’t refer to Lane as a creature. “Sure, they’ll probably demand some sort of punishment, but Ian will get the worst of it for starting a fight he couldn’t finish.” He tilts his head at Tom, “Why didn’t you join the fight?”

Duel laws, Dumbledore, incrimination, Dumbledore, his rising anxiety, Dumbledore, he’s never been in a real fight, Dumbledore, he wanted to see Ximena duel for real, _Dumbledore_ , “Because I’m not stupid.”

“Hn.” His shoulders shake with amusement, “At least someone in our year isn’t.”

Tom knows he’s only counting the boys. Girls don’t count with wizards like him.

“I know how _you_ know what happened, but...”

“Oh, all of Slytherin house knows what happened.” Evan announces casually, “Lane is a celebrity, and you are mythical.” 

The word pleases him. “Nemesis?”

“Partly. Slughorn had a talk too. About inter-house conflicts and the weight that dark spells have on you. The usual nonsense.” Evan rolls his eyes again, “She, though, she really turned the story to favor the two of you.” A clearing of his throat, he flexes his shoulders and enunciates in a hilariously accurate Nemesis voice: “He was a terrible brute! Pissy because of a lost duel in something that didn’t even matter!” Tom almost chuckles at his heightened pitch, “Attacked Tom while his back was turned like a recreant! If it wasn’t for Lane, I’m sure that Dumbledore would have found reason to investigate all of Slytherin house! Especially after Ian had the gall to try the cruciatus curse in Dueling Club!”

It’s amusing but a little hard to follow, he blinks, “Investigate?”

“Ah, right, you’re…” He muses for the right word, “ _New.”_ His hands fold together, “It’s no secret what our house’s reputation is yes? A festering pit for dark wizards...ridiculous.” He huffs, “We’re devious, but far from evil. The problem is that _some of us_ aren’t very good at covering our tracks.” Tsk tsk, “Parents and politicians from other houses have been demanding an investigation into the lives of _students_ for decades. Dumbledore notwithstanding.”

“Dumbledore has children?”

“ _Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot._ ” He stays silent. Evan continues without waiting for a response, “It’s good that Lane’s a Slytherin instead of a damn lion or badger. Maybe now those rumors will start having some truth to them.”

It’s a curious thought to have, but if Evan were older, Tom can imagine him smoking a cigarette during this conversation, looking annoyed and tired as he is. “Truth?”

“That the darkness in Slytherin isn’t all encompassing. Just a few bad eggs.” His hand taps on the cover of his book, “Dark spells are in most of our blood, but it means nothing--Do you know when you’re being released?”

Too much information in such a short span of time hurts his still muffled head. He rubs his eyes, “Sunday, if all goes well?”

Evan nods to himself, satisfied, “Expect lots of visitors today then, Tom. You’ll be sick of it.” A gesture to the box of candies, “Enjoy these, by the way, they’re from Acwellan. She’d be here yelling your ear off, but she had other obligations.” 

Ugh, thank God, he could not take Hedwig’s yelling at this hour with how he’s feeling, “Nothing from you? I’m hurt.”

He tucks his book under his arm, “My _family’s_ get-well gift should be here later today.” A curt nod, “But if you’re really so wounded, I’ll smuggle some cauldron cakes to you after dinner.”

“--Wait.” It slips out, Evan pauses, “Do you know where Ximena is?”

He raises his chin, “No. No one’s seen her since yesterday.”

When Evan leaves Tom to head to breakfast, he sinks into his bed a little more, wanting to bury himself under the covers.

.

If Tom didn’t know any better, he would think he was beloved by all of Slytherin house--and a few more outside of it. Students he’s never talked to (or at least, he doesn’t remember talking to them) visit him with sympathies and flowers. Classmates come with candies and pastries. Teachers come to commend him for his actions (inactions?) and offer extensions to deadlines for assignments he’s already completed days ago. He has a growing collection of little cards with colorful, animated pictures and words that he can’t even look at for longer than a few seconds thanks to the medicine (the eyestrain is painful). The flowers by contrast are less annoying, but still irritating. He had to ask a mediwitch on duty to dull the contrasting and mixing smells, however mild they were (his wand is being kept from him for ‘his own safety’). The candies and sweets are fine. He likes those best, but the mediwitches are storing most of them away from him. Hags.

If Tom didn’t know any better, he would think Ximena became an overnight martyr. Prefects ask him to compliment her on their behalf, younger students whom he half-remembers from varied and scattered study sessions look at him with stars in their eyes and ask when Ximena will be coming back, Slytherin’s _head boy_ comes to apologize for Ian and tells Tom _If you and Lane need anything, I won’t ask questions._ When people ask where she is, he doesn’t know what to tell them all. He blacked out. The last he saw of her, she was...She had just disarmed Ian. No she wasn’t injured, he doesn’t think.

And yes--the attention he is receiving is half the fault (the result of) Ximena _and_ Ian combined, but at least people are remembering his triumph now. How embarrassing it must have been for Ian to be bested. At least, even if it’s not how he planned, there is a spotlight on Ximena again. And this time, it’s not just a handful of students, it’s the entire school.

The part he hates most about this, though, is the people giving him sly looks and winks, assuring him that this must mean she returns his feelings. Idiots.

Despite the armful and a half of insipid people stopping by to see him, there’s about seven conversations held with his fellow students that stay with him for the rest of the week:

.

“Where the fuck is Lane, I would have figured she’d be stuck to your damn side like glue after this.”

“--I assume she’s still being questioned about what happened.”

“For what? Why wouldn’t she be back?”

“--She’s not in trouble for what she did?”

“What, defending her underclassman from an idiot?” Hedwig starts up before something clicks in her brain: she pauses in speaking, brows furrowing, “ _Are you--_ ” Too loud, too loud, she moves to a whisper, “Are you telling me it was _Lane_ that left that gobshite looking like a flambéd goat?”

He mirrors her look, intrigued and alert suddenly, “...Do people think he just burned himself?”

“ _Oh,_ ” She chuckles, and it’s a foreign sound, but a pleasant one, “Oh Tom, you--You fucking geebag.” Her hand comes up to rub at her eyes, “Fucking Satia. I didn’t think she had it in her.” A heavy sigh, “This changes things.”

He doesn’t sit up from the bed like he wants to, but merely stares, “Changes what?”

“Everything.”

“Are you being unhelpfully vague on purpose?”

“Ya, fuck you too, Tom.” A strong punch to his arm in good jest (still hurts), “Don’t worry about it, just eat your sweets.”

She’s holding this over his head and she _knows_ it, “I’m not allowed to know about the status of my housemate?”

“Lane’s fine, you knob, she’ll probably just be expelled.” That is not at all his definition of fine, “Dippet has the Rosiers on his arse, and we all know where Slughorn’s priorities lie.” She picks up one of his boxes of fudge flies and shamelessly opens it to eat some. Tom’s not invested enough to care. “She’ll be out sooner than she can say ‘expelliarmus’.”

“Evan didn’t mention anything like that--”

A snort, “That fucking pox, he’s only considering what his family will do to her probably.” The crunch from the chocolate is very unpleasant. Almost as if Hedwig really were eating flies, “What did he tell ya? Personal vendetta? Indentured servitude?”

“--He didn’t say anything like that.”

“Huh.” Though she keeps eating, she looks perplexed, “Maybe they haven’t decided yet.”

“I thought people weren’t supposed to interrupt fights like that. Wouldn’t she be in hot water because she intercepted the attack meant to me?”

It’s rare when Hedwig doesn’t know the answer to something. She shrugs, “It’s not an _official_ duel, Tom. It shouldn’t be, anyways. But like I said: these things are vague on purpose.” Her hands put away the fudge flies and move onto some shock-o-chocs, “He could plead that he was defending his honor or some shite, and that Lane stopped him from doing do. There’s no other witnesses but you, and you have a bias.”

“They can’t just prove that he’s lying?”

“Oh yeah, golden idea, Tom; Veritaserum is illegal to use on minors.” Verita- _what,_ “I suppose you could pick everyone’s memory of the event and compare them in a pensive,” _What_ , “but Lane’s head is all fucked up, they could damage up her brain more.” Can’t magic get around that? Or cure her of her damn memory loss? “Maybe your brain got fecked up too, I hear the spell he used tore your hat to shreds.”

Hm. He had forgotten about that--It was secondhand, but it was still expensive. Getting another won’t be easy, “I assure you, my mind is as healthy as ever.”

“Ya sure--What school do you think she’ll apply to? Beauxbatons? St. Comba’s?” Saint what, “I’d bet Durmstrang, but it’s hell to get in. Don’t think she’ll be able to with her grades.” She pauses in her chewing, “But then again, I guess she _is_ full of surprises.” Hedwig shrugs stuffing more chocolate in her mouth, “Guess you like her for a reason, huh?” A teasing, good natured, absolutely cruel chuckle, “Maybe I’ll have you screen my potential fiancés for me. Make sure I get the pick of the litter.”

.

“I brought you some pierogi.” Good, Madam Belfast is late with his lunch.

His eyes brighten up and he sits up in his bed, “For me?” He has no idea what that is, but it smells heavenly.

Elle smiles gently, “My brother got hit with a slicing hex from a nasty boy back in his fifth year--These things will do you wonders.” Such radiating kindness. A Hufflepuff poster child. She sets the covered plate aside a few obnoxiously colored packages, looking unassuming, “You’re not...allergic to potatoes, are you?”

_God_ no, “No no, thankfully no. Thank you, Kowalska. You shouldn’t have.” Her smile of relief is a little pathetic, and she uncovers the plate, releasing warm steam.

“I always make extra, it’s alright.” Her wand appears, a swish and a tap, and she transfigures a discarded candy box into a small gold platter before stacking on the strange, dumpling like food, “They’re a bit like, ah, sopaipillas...That food Lane was having for dinner the night, um…” The night Ian attacked him. He remembers. They looked different than this, but the texture is...similar enough.

“You pay attention to Lane’s food too?”

“Oh, um,” Her near-white skin hides nothing when she blushes, “I...yes. I always do. Even in passing.” He supposes that makes sense, considering her relation to gastronomy, “It’s so interesting! I would love to try and taste a sample one day.” She passes the food to him.

“Why don’t you just ask? I’m sure she’d be alright with it.” That’s a lie, Ximena is aggressively defensive about people picking things off her plate. Something his ex-mentor continues to ignore at his own peril.

Elle shakes her head, “Oh no, I could never. It would feel...wrong.” His brow cocks, “There’s something ritualistic about her meals, I can’t...put my finger on it.” She chuckles, “It’s something I can understand.”

Calculation, “...I can introduce you, if you’d like.”

“Re--No, I couldn’t do that.”

“It’s really no trouble.” If anything, it would be to his benefit.

“I’ll...I’ll think about it.” Her hands clasp in her lap, her right index finger tapping on her knuckle, “--Please, eat. They’ll get cold.”

He does. They’re fluffy and delightful. He knows by the end of the plate, he’ll have gained ten whole stones, hyperbole be damned.

“...Have you heard anything about her?”

Chew and swallow, “I’ve heard a lot of things.” Three different stories thus far, “I was hoping you knew something.”

“Oh--No, no, the Slytherins know the most on what will happen, these sort of... _things_ are their territory.” A sigh, “My snake told me a bit about it before she graduated. You’re all sort of your own little micronation in that house, you know? I’m surprised you haven't developed your own currency, how can you keep up?”

Can’t argue with that, “It’s...a learning curve.” He’s so fucking lost, “But so far, even the smartest in my year have different ideas on what will happen to her.”

“Mm.” Her nervous tick continues, her finger accelerating, “The boy who attacked my brother was also a pureblood, but he wasn’t like...like _Rosier._ ” Tom can tell she’s trying so hard to stay impartial, but he won’t blame her one bit if she slips and calls Ian a right prat, “It was a Potter...Fleamont? Feodore? Something weird like that.” Another sigh, and it feels like she’s going to depress all the air out of her body, “They were fighting over a _girl_ of all things. It got out of hand and,” a shrug, “--they both ended up here.” She shakes her head, “The Potters are a good, reasonable family, but a few of their members demanded a trial. I suppose, if I had to ponder a guess, that this situation would reap the opposite effect. Many demand a trial, few are level headed enough to remember that the witches involved are children...” Elle trails off, not wanting to continue. 

“--Do you have some time tomorrow? That’s when I’m getting released, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about Transfiguration.”

The older witch perks up, beams even, “Of course! I’d be happy to help with whatever you need.”

.

“Hey there Tommy Gun,” Oh fucking Christ, Merlin, and Circe, “What’s the gag? Good to see you in one piece!”

“Hello Miller,” He tries to look tired, maybe he’ll excuse himself out of politeness. “Did someone say I was broken in half?” He says with a yawn.

A beautiful laugh, “A few people told me you were shredded up like a mouse by a cat! But I know these kinds of things get a bit exaggerated when pulled through the mill.” He elbows Tom’s side softly as he sits, “Ya get it? Mill? Miller?”

Good fuck, what does Ximena see in this boy, “Mm.” A soft smile, he flutters his eyelids like he’s about to pass out any second, “Well, thank you for visiting me,”

“Of course! I can’t be left out from this! Have to contribute my own offering to your pile.” Offering...he likes that word. A tribute from a conquered city. A sacrifice from worshippers. Tom will allow it.

“Oh you shouldn’t have.”

“Nah, what I shouldn’t have done was pin the blame on my friend for our third year prank--This is different.” He shows off a golden box, the size of a whiffle ball, and shakes it. “Good ol’ American hospitality. Nothing like it!” He sets it atop of a box of jelly slugs, and Tom’s grateful he doesn’t expect him to open it in front of him, “You might not know what to do with it, it’s kind of a regional thing, even back home! Just break it up immediately, okay?”

...Break his gift? “Okay.” No time to ask, he wants him gone so he can nap.

“Looking at your hoard, you’d think you were some kind of dictator.” He chuckles as Tom sends him a questioning look, “I mean--The more afraid of you people are, the more flowers you get [1]. It’s something my mama says a lot. But you’re a good kid. Hard boiled [2], too.”

Hm. People being so afraid of him that even when he’s sick or injured, they cower and bring him tokens of their loyalty. Adam is full of good ideas today. Maybe he’ll let him stay a while.

Tom inclines his head in a humble bow, “I do my best.”

“Well your best is pretty darn good. Ya got moxie. All the teachers talk about you when the rest of us upperclassmen are slacking.”

He preens, “Oh?” He knew this already, but he likes hearing it.

“Oh ya. ‘Mena too, but it’s not as constant, she’s a quiet dame.” _Oh?_ Talk more about that, “You already know--We’ll be in the library chatting about something and she brings you up. Usually about some interesting insights or something you’ve said about the subject.”

At least he’s not being _misplaced_ anymore, “I feel honored.”

“Eh.” He nods in agreement, “Smart cookie.”

“Do you help her in anything else besides Divination?”

“Oh yeah, lots of things. She’s an eager beaver. Potions, History, Care of Magical Creatures...I don’t think she really _needs_ it, but she likes learning. It’s cute. Like watching a lil kid grow up and learn to walk before your eyes.”

.

“You have Lane’s bracelet.”

“...How long have you known?”

“Since the day she lost it.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t show anything on his face. Not a single raised goose pimple or bead of sweat on his brow. “I could see it from Burma. Were you ever planning on giving it back?”

_Eventually_ almost comes out of his mouth, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t know how, but Yami would know that he’s lying, “...What does it matter to you?” If she really cared, she’d have told Lane, right? She’s had a year. Almost over a year.

She sits with her legs crossed, hands on her knee. The heel she has planted on the ground taps once. It echos with impatience in the empty ward, “Do you know what it is that my family does, Riddle?”

There’s that feeling again: that she’s already judged him without listening to all his perfectly valid reasons. That he’s under a test. “They’re curse breakers.”

A nod, though her brows raise, “In a way...Curses are...different here than they are elsewhere.” He’s about to ask ‘where is elsewhere?’, but she continues before he can, “At home, a curse is something you inflict on yourself. Carried through other lives, other actions. It bears your name and your name only. It is no one’s fault but your own.” She pinches a piece of lint off her lap, shooing it away, “So as you can imagine, Lane’s case interests me greatly.”

Her case as in the situation at _hand_ or as in _his classmate is cursed?_

“Do tell her hello for me when she’s back.”

“--You think she’ll come back?” He tries not to sound _too_ eager at the prospect.

“Of course.” Her gaze steadies down to his pocket, where the bracelet rests, “Did you think she would leave that behind?”

His mind searches for corresponding answers from the pages of the book Ximena lent him, head filled with ink and figures, “So, she _is_ cursed, then?”

Yami nods her head down in confirmation, but also gestures in a so-so manner with her hand, the gold bangles on her wrist jingling. Excitement spikes up his spine, “I trust you won’t go spreading that information around.” It’s not a question. She knows. That he wants to keep everything that counts as a secret to himself. Is it so easy to figure him out?

“Of course.”

Another nod, “A good favor to keep for a _friend._ ” --Does she know his crush is fake? “It shouldn’t be hard to keep another.”

Yes. She wouldn’t dare offer him her silence without expecting anything in return. It’s nothing personal, he understands, it’s only business. As expected from a Slytherin prefect.

But she doesn’t say what she wants, or needs, merely wishes him a good day, leaves her gift of fresh fruit (did she say that red one was called a persimmon?) and walks out.

.

“That filthy Muggle lover had no right to do what she did!”

“ _Miss Rosier, you will take care not to shout in my hospital wing!_ ”

Tom hides his smile behind the piece of chocolate he’s snacking on.

Druella is, by far, the worst visitor he’d had today--Peeves included. At least he had something intelligent to say.

She huffs, biting back her tongue, “I know my cousin already visited with you, _what did he say._ ” Who does this girl think she is making commands at him? She’s only above him in money.

“Evan wished me well and said a package from his family would arrive later today.”

This information, of course, does not please her. Her hands ball into fists, gripping her gold trimmed robes, and she looks like she’s resisting the urge to strangle the life out of Tom. He keeps eating his chocolate.

“ _She_ did that to him! I know it, Ian would never be so idiotic as to _burn himself._ ” Her lower volume is still, remarkably, loud. Impressive. “He practically invented _expulso._ He mastered it in three months!” They both have different ideas of ‘mastered’, then.

“Does your family often teach dark curses to their children?”

Ohh, _that_ was something she shouldn’t have said. Her heavy eyes narrow, annoyed that she was so careless, “Of course! All the right houses do.” Weak defence. Druella moves so erratically, her hat almost falls off her head. “ _You_ were there, Riddle, tell them the truth! Bring justice to my family’s name--I’m sure Ian didn’t mean it, he has a stupid temper when people best him: he almost handicapped my sister over a chess match!”

No, this is much more fun, “I don’t know what happened: I passed out from blood loss before the fire started.”

An exasperated _ugh_ , she rubs her eyes, “That _idiot_...beaten by an Indian.”

Huh. “Ximena’s not from India.” Probably.

“ _Whatever._ ” She waves her hand, looking tired, “All those unsavory bunch, they all look well enough the same, what does it matter where they’re from?” 

Mm. This again. If she actually paid attention to their faces, she’d see how wrong she was, but he won’t tell her that, “Perhaps you are in need of some spectacles, then?”

Druella is by far the shortest visit.

.

“Hon, you look like hell.”

“Hell must be remarkably charming, then.”

Mali chuckles, not taking a seat, but remaining standing instead, “I see why all the girls won’t stop talking about you.” ...Girl _s_? There’s more than Nemesis? Sweet Salazar.

His displeasure must show on his face because Mali’s smile grows wider, “Don’t like girls yet, huh?”

“ _Yet_ is a very very conditional word.” He’s never seen himself as someone who could stand being around someone long enough to woo them, much less marry them. Even marrying for the sake of getting into a better family sounds exhausting.

“What about boys, then?”

If Tom were eating, he’d choke on his food in surprise. _Homosexuality_ was more than taboo in the presense of the Wool’s workers, it was a one way ticket to having at least two of the caretakers eye you warily and suggest taking you to a priest and doctor. Nevermind the horridly loud rants that Mrs. Cole would dole out. He assumed it was the same with wizards (no one had mentioned anything to the contrary, after all, and most of them are rather concerned with breeding...) Is Mali trying to trick him?

He plays it safe, “I don’t find anything particularly _alluring_ about either gender.” He’s as equally attracted to the pretty girl as to the ugly one and the handsome boy as to the hideous one. That is to say: not at all.

“That’s fair.” Mali nods once, “You’re still young anyways, there’ll be plenty of time for that later if you like.” He would not like to ever, thank you, “Adolescence hits us all differently.” Oh God, is she going to give him a _talk._

“I didn’t think you’d come and visit me.” Quick change of subject, thank you!

“And miss the martyr of the century?”

What curious wording, “I wasn’t attacked for my beliefs.” Just for being exceptional.

“Maybe not, but you _do_ suffer constantly from those pigheaded boys in your houses.”

“Touché. But I’m sure the pigheaded boys in Hufflepuff house are just as bad.”

“They’re a...different brand of bad.”

“A rose by any other name.”

She turns her head to the side at him, “A perfect Slytherin quoting Muggle literature?”

“I’m told he was a wizard.”

Mali snorts, “Bullshit. That’s a lie they made up so they could keep reading his works without guilt or hypocrisy.” Yes...that sounds more like reality. “I hear the Japanese changed the name of baseball in their language so they could keep playing it. They wanted to ban everything that wasn’t from their culture, but they love baseball too much to give it up.” She tsks, “Not sure if _that’s_ true, but I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that it was. The more things change the more they stay the same.”

“How cynical.” He agrees.

“Speaking of cynical,” she starts up as if the topic had just come up in her head, “what do you think of all these rumors going around about the fate of my little viper?”

He’s not sure. There’s much to think. Everyone has given him a goddamn different story, and he doesn’t like most of them for different reasons. “I think people have a lot of free time.”

“You got that right. Damn kids have nothing else better to do but squabble like shaken hens.” Kids? Mali is barely a teenager herself. “It’s about the same back home: the most interesting thing that can happen is a near-death experience. Tell me, what would you like to happen to your remains after you’ve passed?”

The question is completely out of left field. And if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to think of himself in the terms of mortal. In the conditions of mortality. He finally got all that horrific imagery out of his head only for this damn girl to bring it all back.

But thankfully he doesn’t have to answer, because she laughs at him, “Sorry, it’s kind of a random question, it’s just been on my mind.” She rubs the back of her neck, “In Alchemy, we talk to the dead sometimes. Nothing _dark_ , mind you, just your casual communicating with human skulls in the light of a full moon.” Oh yes, as one does, “And...Good gracious, it’s so _morbid._ Someone took those poor sons of witches out of their resting place for their own gain and just...never put them back.” Her arms cross, “Maybe we can’t even put them back anymore because no one knows where they’re buried. They have to be used like this, constantly, never being able to rest…” She sighs, “I bring it up because...Even they take up their time with arbitrary gossip. One moment they’re telling you how to transmute gold and the next, they’re speaking about something dramatic that happened Beyond the Veil. We never change.” 

.

“Miss me?” His ex-guide is the last thing Tom needs to see right now: he’s eating some cauldron cakes.

“Not particularly.” Tom isn’t joking, but the other boy laughs anyways.

“Sorry I couldn’t drop in earlier, I had some business to attend to.” Chasing skirts again, no doubt. Chasing robes? Witches didn’t wear skirts unless they were Muggleborn.

“Busy with Slug Club?”

He blows air out of his mouth, “I think not--All Sluggy can talk about is the sad state of affairs in Slytherin house...To the rest of us snakes, of course. The rest just get cautionary tales of ‘you can never be too careful. I reckon he thinks himself to be like Beedle the Bard--Has he visited you yet? You’re one of his favourites.”

“I was asleep when he came.” Fake asleep, but that doesn’t matter.

“Eh, that’s for the best, he’s been very on edge. Some of the other professors are doubting his leadership as Head of House. As if all the clan brats in Slytherin are so easy to keep track of.” He shakes his head, “I know for a _fact_ that the ones in Gryffindor are worse than we are. Only _we_ have dark magical centers, so that places us on a watchlist.”

“And dark isn’t evil.” It’s not a question, but not exactly a statement.

“Right you are, Tom.” He adjusts himself, leaning back in the chair and spreading his knees apart, “Looks like I taught you well.” Ugh. “And I guess Eric’s mentorship wasn’t all for naught: our girl held her own, I hear.”

_Our_ girl. Pleh. “From what I remember, she was very precise.” That’s not incriminating, right? “I think Ian was very heated up, so that worked to her advantage.”

“Pshh, you know Ian almost got Gryffindor? He _begged_ the hat to place him into Slytherin.”

What.

The older boy leans in closer, “It’s true, I heard my mother talking about it with his--And I’m not surprised. His complexion looks far better with red and gold anyways.”

There’s a moment where Tom tries to process all of this...It makes sense. His infuriating stubbornness, brash personality, his ego...The boy during their match, the one that taunted Ian into (nearly) casting an Unforgivable...That was a Gryffindor, and he used the word _mudblood._ Tom hadn’t thought about it before, but that was a bit unusual wasn’t it? Weren’t lions all against that sort of thing? Or…

“Do you think the hat made a mistake?”

“If it did, it won’t admit to it: damn thing always stands by its final decisions, apparently. Even centuries after they’re made.” He yawns, scratching at his cheek where the suggestion of facial hair was beginning to grow in, “Baby Rosier is a good Slytherin, by most standards, but he would certainly be a better Gryffindor. You’d have to be brave to try and cast the Cruciatus Curse so carelessly. Or stupid.” Brave and stupid are often the same thing. “Even if he did, it probably wouldn’t have done anything: you have to _really_ feel it, and he was probably just pissy because he was losing to you.”

_Magic is not free from passion._ He remembers, “So, I wouldn’t have felt anything?”

“ _Well,_ I wouldn’t say that.” What the hell _would_ you say, then? “He has the right stuff for it, but I don’t think you’d feel _unbelievable_ pain. Probably the worst you’ve had, but nothing compared to the real thing.”

“Would he have still gone to Azkaban, then?” 

“He wouldn’t have gone to Azkaban if he had murdered you right then and there: he’s a Rosier!” Hn.

“He has family in the Wizengamot, then?”

“Most worthy families have at least one seat, but the Rosier’s real power comes from the people whose campaigns they fund.” He squints, thinking, “I _think_ they have someone in parliament? From one of the lower branches. Not important.” 

“You know so much,” he’s more useful than he lets on, “you could probably represent Ximena in this whole ordeal.” Do wizards have lawyers?

“I might.” Huh, “Well--My father. I can pull a few favors for a housemate.”

“Favors?”

“Mmm, investments.” There it is, “Lane might not have a lot of weight to her name, but everyone has something to trade. It’s good to have a couple of spoons in everyone’s cauldron.”

Yes, but Tom has spent most of his first year making sure to hoard said cauldron all to himself, “Ambitious.”

He laughs, “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

.

There was a sprinkle of more visitors after his ex-guide came around, but Belfast quickly shooed them away once it was getting close to curfew. She looked over his state, changed his bandages, and assessed that he would be a free agent tomorrow morning. A marvelous recovery under her supervision of course, though Tom doesn’t feel like she did much beyond nag at him and give him dizzying medicine.

He has a dreamless sleep.

.

There’ll be scars, at first, faint and noticeable once his hair grows back to its length on that side of his head, but otherwise, he has survived and come out of this unscratched.

“ _You were very lucky, Mister Riddle._ ” Madam Belfast tells him as another mediwitch helps him out of his bandages, “That hex could have cut off your head.” Don’t remind him, he’s been trying to forget. “I’ll send you off with Miss Travers to accompany you to the Great Hall, they should be serving lunch right now.” Travers, the eighteen year old intern beside Belfast curtseys once in greeting, staying silent, “Don’t let me see you back here again.” As if any of this was his fault. Preposterous.

He nods his head courteously, vowing to obey, and thanks the staff present for taking care of him, as well as apologizing for any trouble he might have caused (which was none: he was a perfect patient.) 

Tom walks out with the mediwitch intern, all his get-well gifts having been transferred to his bedside via house elf (he greeted Pris neutrally), and a single, unopened package from the Rosier patriarch and his wife under his arm.

Evan waits, as if he were personally alerted of Tom’s departure, at the doorway of the Great Hall. He greets Travers with a smile and asks how his cousin (her father) fairs, before taking her charge.

“Doesn’t it exhaust you to keep track of so many family members?”

“Doesn’t it exhaust you to be at the top of the year constantly?”

“It’s my natural place in life.”

His companion turns to look at him, “There you go.”

Still doesn’t make any sense to him.

The two, however, don’t get far enough to reach their usual seats and continue any conversation before a voice calls out--“Riddle. Sit with us, won’t you?” That sounds like Katux, but it can’t be--Tom will eat his shoes if it is. He turns around, Katux and Dion are sitting primly at their special seat in the Slytherin section along with a handful of others. Well there go his shoes. “Evan is welcome too.”

Only he can hear Evan’s _heh_ sound. He waits until Tom moves to sit anyways. Good.

“Recovering well?” Katux doesn’t bother for a formal introduction, Tom remembers the faces of his would-be bullies. 

He smiles at them all, showing teeth. “Wonderfully, thank you, Lestrange.”

“Ian didn’t rough you up too bad?” Dion asks, overly excited and leaning over his breakfast.

A hand is waved as Tom’s plate fills with sausages, “Nothing but scratches.” He makes a show of looking as nonchalant as possible.

Katux chuckles, “Indeed. If a second year bested him so easily, I expect that a _witch_ of all people in his own year could do the same. Especially one that could manipulate fire like that. I admit, I didn’t understand what the point of following around that _girl_ for all of your first year,” Girl? Tom wonders if it’s better or worse to not even be good enough to be referred to by name or to be referred to by insult, “But after your victory over Rosier and seeing how she left him, I see you have a good eye for...usefulness.” Katux plays with the flame of a candle next to him as he talks, looking at him with an elegant smile on his face--He probably thinks he looks _so_ cool. Greasy git.

Tom furrows his brows, ignoring Evan’s little smirk out of the corner of his eye, “Lane never cast any fire hexes, if that’s what you’re implying. Those are all much above her year level.”

Katux snorts (fairly uncharacteristic coming from him), and eats more of his eggs, “Yes, of course she didn’t. Ian Rosier simply _burned_ himself, I forgot.”

“That’s what the Priori Incantatem said.” Evan confirms, “Expulso, correct?” A glance at Tom.

Ah yes, Evan knew; he almost forgot about that _,_ “It was very clumsy and poorly executed, even a first year could have done better.” It really wasn’t that bad. Just out of control. Impassioned and... _everywhere._ Something he learned by watching his elder siblings, no doubt. Druella said he had mastered it, but what frame of reference is she using for that? Evan might know. In fact, he might know the spell himself.

“Get your news straight from the source, Evan?” Dion quips.

“It was the first thing said to me by Auntie Sirona.”

“Salazar, I can see her ugly pug face now.” Dion replies as Katux looks thoughtful and the rest of their group chuckle, “She must have been furious.”

“She was rather calm about it, actually.” Evan cuts his food, looking bored with the topic, “I imagine once Ian is home from St. Mungo’s, he’ll feel her full wrath.”

A blanket of morbidity covers the table. Some of the boys pause in their eating. Was Nemesis right about the curse of pain being used as discipline in their families? Or are they all being melodramatic again?

A break in the thick silence, “I underestimated you, Riddle.” Yes, he knows that, Katux, “Very clever of you to have your little guard dog do the dirty work.”

He’s trying to bait him. Ximena is far from a dog, and Tom is far from needing protection like that. He was simply taken by surprise. He could have gotten away with maiming Rosier like he deserved if only Nemesis weren’t there...Would Ximena have told _him_ to run and get a teacher? Or let him try and fight alongside her? Let him have the final hit? “Oh Lestrange, you know me well enough to know I always do my own work.”

Katux flinches. Good. Maybe that’ll help him remember his place.

Tom steers the conversation away from Ximena and back onto him, making himself appear both humble and rightfully confident. A victim and a victor. They’re as enthralled by his words as the students were by Ximena’s story last Hallowe’en. As more and more people gather, the wider his grin grows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Yes, this is a ~~Mean Girls~~  Machiavelli’s The Prince reference.  
> [2] Hard Boiled is 30s slang meaning tough.
> 
>  Mental health took a sharp nosedive. I'll be okay probably, if anything I'll just pour myself into this work and hope for the best. Thanks for reading!


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